Collagen
by T0PH4T
Summary: The Shaper shard and Queen Administrator shard switch places. Things butterfly quickly.
1. Algor Mortis 1

Someone starts knocking on the stall door. I don't look up from my pita wrap. All the other stalls are empty, so if someone wants to use the restroom, they're more than welcome to pick a different stall.

I hear some chattering, and the stalls on either side of me open up. Coincidence? Maybe. Probably? No. I re-wrap my lunch, place it carefully in my backpack, and close the bag, schooling my features into a mask. I've practiced in the mirror and I'd like to think I've gotten pretty good at hiding my emotions. I can't stop myself from feeling _absolutely livid_ whenever I put up with the Trio, but damned if they have to know.

I wait for them to start. Come on, do your worst.

"Found you!" a sickeningly sweet voice calls out from above me. I look up and get greeted by a face full of grape juice, with orange soda not far behind. It doesn't take much effort to keep from flinching, and through the film of drink on my glasses I get a look at the two responsible for this particular prank. Madison and Sophia, laughing like it's the funniest thing in the world. Like this helps them, somehow, to make my life miserable. I can already feel my shirt beginning to fuse to my hoodie, the disgusting feeling of stickiness on skin. Mask, Taylor. Keep the mask on.

They get down from the dividers and I take a moment to use some toilet paper to dry my glasses. Once I've cleaned myself up a little bit I stand up and open the stall door to face my tormentors. Madison Clements, Sophia Hess, and Emma Barnes, all looking happier than the cat who caught the canary. They look at me, covered in stickiness and standing emotionless. They laugh, looking for tears, for anger, for anything they can use, twist and throw back at me.

Fuck 'em.

I stare at them, keeping the mask on. Madison is the first one to stop, sneering one last time and practically skipping off. Sophia follows, dismissing me with her eyes. Emma looks me up and down, one last time, appraising. I keep my eyes locked on hers and my hands at my sides.

Mask on. Mask on. Keep it up.

She nods, as if she's finished up a masterpiece, all stoic pleasantness and satisfaction. Then she turns away, paying me no mind as she walks out the door, already adopting the walk that shows off her figure best, all swaying hips and bouncing hair. I track her with my eyes, and then turn to the old, dirty mirror over the sinks to asses the damage.

My hoodie's ruined, with orange and purple stains decorating the shoulders. I twist a little and see my upper back is also soaked, with streaks of purple and orange going up and down, like lashes. The top of my backpack got covered, but a quick check of the contents assuages my fears. Everything is intact. Now I just need to _murder_ something and-

I cut that thought off, putting on the mask. Can't freak out. Won't freak out. Not here. I breathe. In. Out. Deep and relaxing.

It's not enough. I work my jaw and lift my hand in front of me to chest height. Then I push.

The skin of my hand parts, revealing a bud of bone. It parts and pushes up farther, slowly opening into wafer thin petals. A rose, bone white, with thorns running up the stem. Picture perfect. It took a lot of failure to make it look like a real flower. More to make it look like it grew in time-lapse. I can feel the tension draining out of me, seeing something bloom from me.

It takes a minute to become picture perfect. One minute where I can lose myself in the intricacies of calcium and collagen. Then I grasp it near the base (careful to keep my fingers unpricked) and snap it off.

I hiss. A little. Not nearly as much as I did when I was first testing my limits. I push my bone back into its normal shape (the skin healing back over itches like nothing else) and I put the rose into my backpack, right next to my art project.

Fuck. Art. I look in the mirror. A mess stares back at me. I can't go to class like this. Can't put up with the semi-pitying stares, the snickering, the increasing levels of bullshit that _lead to me eviscerating_ -

Mask up. I school myself into calm. In. Out. Control the breath, control the rage. I head out of the bathroom and walk out of school, keeping to the under-used hallways. In. Out. A few of the kids give me looks. I ignore them. The mask is still on.

The bus ride has more looks. I ignore them. The mask is still on.

I get home and drop my bag by my door. I make a mental note to put it away somewhere Dad won't see before he gets back home. I step into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and strip off my filthy clothes. I don't even wait for the shower to hit a reasonable temperature before I step in, ignoring the cold. Mask is still on.

Then I drop the mask and fall to the floor, gasping.

Fuck fuck fuck. How'd it all get so _fucked_? None of the pranks on their own were that bad. Pleasant? No. Bearable? Yeah. I had my power, my plans for being a hero, I had Dad. I had options to get out of it. I had a coping mechanism, _so why do I immediately default to extreme fucking violence to solve my bullying problem_? I could force it down and that would work for a while. Thing is, they had infinite opportunity to torture me and if I lost control _once_ , I could kill someone. Then I'd be branded a villain. Goodbye hero-career. I sob a little, salt replaced with heavy-metal flavoring as the shower pounded into my face. After a few more minutes of desperate gasping I feel my tears stop coming. Good, good. Getting better. I feel the goosebumps on my skin from the freezing water and see the slight pruning on my fingers. How long did I spend in the shower? I giggle a little, unbalanced and desperate.

God, I needed an outlet.

The water finally hits a reasonable temperature, and I stand up and start cleaning myself. Convex bone protrusions spring under where I feel the stickiness most. Pain, not as bad as snapping off a rose (and isn't that a great euphemism for breaking my own bones?) follows, and entire sections of my skin slough off. A neat trick I picked up when I realized I didn't scar when my bones broke my skin. Used it to get rid of all sorts of other little imperfections. I thought a perfectly clear complexion would be one fewer thing they could use against me.

 _Wow Taylor, you were finally able to get some surgery! Maybe now you can look a little bit more like your mother! Why not take the final step and jump off a dock?_

I feel the protrusions curl around me protectively. I push them back underneath, enduring the sudden itching that follows my weird sort-of regeneration. Not going to think back now. Not at home.

I shut off the water, towel off, and tug on some clothes. The strips of filthy skin (mercifully bloodless) get thrown in a garbage bag I've made a habit of keeping in my room. It's not so full I have to burn it, but it's getting there. Now that I feel more like a human being, I drag out my notebook (blessedly free of stains) and turn to an empty page to really _think_ about how my hero career should go. I've put it off for too long, experimenting where no one can see and keeping quiet. As a result, I haven't been looking forward. Time to hammer this out.

I could keep enduring. Do nothing. I cross the option out as soon as I write it down. I can't be sure if ( _or when_ ) I'll snap, and lives are in the balance. Best not to rely on something as fragile as my self control.

I could join the Wards. I snort as I cross it out, right below 'nothing'. I'd have to tell Dad about my powers, and about how I go them. Not something I'm comfortable with. That, and my power would be hard to spin into something family friendly. Introducing Calcium Queen, the hero who tears open her own skin and has freaky bone spikes, a poster child for self-harm! That'd go over really well with the parents. Even more than those, reviews from ex-Wards who didn't join the Protectorate are not positive. The amount of paperwork that has to be submitted after something as simple as a stopped mugging is absurd, though that did come from a Master, so a grain of salt is required. On the other hand, the reward for saving lives is a stack of sheets? Pass.

No. Wards are out.

I could join a gang. Not asian enough for ABB (one bullet point ex'd out), not Nazi enough for E88 (another one) and I don't really want to start my own gang (last bullet point gone). No major gang that I could join cleanly. That and, hey, criminal activity. I'll be damned if I'm driven to crime because I couldn't take some abuse. They're not that strong.

I think about some other options, chewing on the eraser. New Wave is an option. I could be an independent, skip the paperwork. Or do something non-combative, like Parian. I write them each across the sheet at the top, then draw a line between each one. Pros and Cons.

New Wave. An flying brick, some flying shooters, a fairly generic strong man, someone with a lightsaber, and the best medical care parahumanly possible. Safety in numbers is a thing, and if they're recruiting it wouldn't be a bad gig.

On the other hand, they're basically a smaller Protectorate. A few teenagers, a few adults, an emphasis on accountability (if not paperwork), and they might ask me to unmask and/or tell Dad. Same package, different name. I write down 'probably not, but maybe if they meet some demands'.

Independant. A little research can find the sustainability of independent heroes pretty easily, and it's pretty fucking terrible. Most get recruited by one team or the other, with a few joining the villains and a few dying/retiring. Other than that though, the indies have a good job. The legal system is setup to ignore you, and the police won't look _too_ hard for missing money. Plus, there're a lot of overlooked assault charges as long as you don't go to far (like, say, shooting criminals with lethal ammunition). Other independent heroes say that not being a dick is usually enough to make sure you don't get badly injured. I scribble down 'decent option' under the even shorter list of bullet points and move onto the last option.

Parian. One of Brockton Bay's only Rogues, with the ability to manipulate fabric and create stuffed animals. Currently not doing much besides fashion shows and birthday parties. I go back to spinning the pencil and rub my chin thoughtfully. How can I economize my powers?

Bone marrow transfusions? Most of those are donations, so I'm not sure how much of a market there is. Plus, Panacea probably covers anything sufficiently serious. Skin grafts? Again, not sure there's a market for it. Art? Parahuman stuff always sells, but I suck at sculpting. Then again, I don't know how good Parian's stuff is. I was never into the fashion scene, always putting up with _that traitorous bitch's attempts to pretty me up_ -

Stop. Mask. I notice my pencil's broken, snapped between a pair of bone-armored fingers. I toss aside the broken eraser end and pull the bone back under. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, pressing my glasses up in the process. In. Out. After letting out the breath through my nose, I open my eyes back up and go back to the page.

The economical option is nice, but if I don't hit something soon I might go Freddy Kruger on the school. I write 'nice in theory, but not currently viable' under the Parian column, as well as a note to read some books on sculpting. Maybe I can do some modern art, pull in five figures, and pretend like I found a sack of drug money under a bench when I give it to Dad.

Yeah, real convincing.

I look a the page. New Wave, Independant, and Parian. New Wave might not take and Parian won't give me any catharsis. Guess that leaves going out on patrol. I head down into the basement, absentmindedly flicking on the lights, illuminating the bare boards above and slightly chipped concrete floor below. And the mirror.

More than six feet tall and clear as open sky, with a worn bronze frame that depicted laughing skeletons, all rictus grins and spindly fingers. The old man on the market couldn't be rid of it fast enough, said it creeped out his grandkids. That's probably a fair reaction if you don't think the skeletons are laughing _with_ you. I initially picked it up to get a discount on the close-cut biking goggles that matched my spare set of prescription lenses, but it grew on me.

I strip, put on the goggles, and look at the mirror. An unimpressive, thin, gawky teenager looks back. With a just-too-large mouth, no curves to speak of, and owlish eyes, I wouldn't put myself above the median in looks. I've seen pictures of mom, and it gets better, assuming dad's genes don't become dominant. That doesn't help me now.

I close my eyes and push with my power. I remember the patterns I've been working on for these past three months, modeled after medieval plate armor. Barely-warm bone crawls over me, forming thick plates with ablative shells, barely attached. Loose at the joints for mobility and lighter that any metal. Apparently sometimes stronger, too. Fun fact, bone has one of the best strength-to-weight ratios in the world. For a second I lose myself in the gentle, soothing embrace of my power. It's pleasant. Like a full-body hug.

When I open my eyes and look at the mirror, Taylor, the perfectly average girl, isn't there. Instead, I see a woman with a slim, supermodel figure, all long legs, slim hips and clean limbs. Segmented armor covers every bit of her skin, reminiscent of ancient knights. She's in lifts, putting her well over six feet. I'd heard other girls complain about walking in heels, but walking in ones made of bone felt... natural.

I look at the mask. A full-face close helm, with vertical slits for breath and vision, skin concealed in shadows. My hair, Mom's beautiful black hair, trails from the back, forming a dark plume behind me.

Taylor was hidden. The White Rose remained.


	2. Algor Mortis 2

Wandering the Docks at just past midnight, an entirely inappropriate thought springs to mind: how long does it take to find a crime in a city with roughly the eighth-highest concentration of villainous parahumans in the states?

The thing is, even in Brockton Bay, crime isn't all that common. Sure, we've got a higher homicide rate than ninety percent of the country, but you're still more likely to get hit by a car than run into an E88'r out for blood. I can't expect to run into criminals with any regularity on a random patrol, even if I'm specifically looking for trouble. Nor should I want that. If wandering the streets automatically led to an encounter with a crime-in-progress, the city would be condemned.

I understand that my inability to exercise violence is a good thing. That doesn't keep the rage at bay, though. At this point I'm almost ready to seek out a Nazi bar and ask for directions to the closest pit fight.

Maybe this was a bad time. I didn't go out on Friday night, since I didn't have a route planned and couldn't have disappeared without Dad noticing. So instead I cooked dinner and sat down to eat with him. Half an hour of forced small talk, mixed with silent wondering at this man who is my father. Responsible for my stick-thin figure and owlish eyes.

I feel a spike of guilt for bashing Dad, and I try to turn it around. I got my height from him, too. Maybe my powers, now that I think about it. There's a correlation in families, like with New Wave. One theory is as good as any other when none have support, right?

I also went out on Saturday night and found nothing. A good sign for the population, but a terrible thing for my urge to _ram a spike of bone into someone and rip and tear until_ -

In. Out. Breathe. I idly flex the visor of my helm, reveling in the sharpening feeling that accompanies the almost-pain. Mask on, Rose. Mask on.

I catch sight of a group of teenagers walking down the street, dressed up in greens and reds. I duck into a nearby alleyway and take a look at their faces. Asian, in red and green, in the middle of the night? In Brockton Bay, marking them as ABB members isn't profiling, it's a survival instinct. Another part of that survival instinct is running away, which I quash as I fall in step behind them. Maybe they're coming back from a successful crime. Maybe they're just hanging out. But maybe, just maybe, I can find something cathartic to do.

It takes a few minutes for them to join up with a larger group just outside a large two-story building, and it was at that point that I began to regret looking for trouble. Twenty or thirty gang members, all looking ready to start a fight. I stay inside an alleyway, wishing I could change the color of my bones into something less conspicuous. Could I fight them all? Maybe, depending on how many guns they had. I had tested my armor by dropping increasing large pieces of metal on them, but I had no idea how that translated into number of bullets I could block. What if they swarmed me? I could stab the gangsters, yeah, but I didn't want to kill them. Just send them to the police with a few injuries.

My thinking gets interrupted when I see a six-foot plus Asian man in a metallic dragon mask walk out the building. Lung, perhaps the single most individually dangerous parahuman in Brockton Bay. He started talking to the crowd and though I could hear him clearly, I was too busy considering my chances against him to listen. A pyrokinetic brute that got stronger the longer he fought. A villain that had taken on entire teams of heroes at once and left victorious. Way out of my weight class. I suddenly wish my hands weren't covered in plates of bone. That way I could wipe the clammy sweat off.

The rage would have to wait for another day. I turn on my heel to leave.

"-the children, just shoot. Doesn't matter your aim, just shoot. You see one lying on the ground? Shoot the little bitch twice to be sure. We give them no chance to be clever or lucky, understand?"

I take one full second to think if there is any world where I can leave Lung to do what he said and for it to be the reasonable, moral thing to do. Then I take another second to ask if it is likely that I am misinterpreting him.

I turn on my heel again and stride out of the alley and into the street. Lung takes all of a second to turn and face me. Odd, I don't think bone on concrete is that loud. Something to check.

"Who are you?" he asks disdainfully, rolling his shoulders and looking me up and down. I remain silent and keep walking. I'm almost within jumping distance, if I can get closer maybe I can put him down before anything-

Lung gestures and my world is fire.

The pain of having bare bone exposed to flame is indescribable. The worst parts of putting a hand on a stove and breaking a rib, except so much more. I scream, falling to my knees. God, why does it hurt _so much_? I drop the burned plates with another hiss of pain and regrow them. Loud, flat claps, accompanied by the more familiar pain of plates of bone shattering and chipping individually as I shudder from each one. Fuck, guns! I was shot! Multiple times! From the corner of my goggles I catch sight of an over-eager gang banger approaching with a nail-studded bat, leering. I whip my arm forward while pushing out a needle of bone from my hand. A line of red is blossoms across his face and the teen hisses in pain and stumbles backwards, swearing.

The claps have stopped and Lung is striding forward with something that looks close to amusement in his eyes. I steel myself a little. Push through. Mask is on. In. Out. Lung doesn't matter, have to take down the regular gang members. Can't have them shooting kids. I get up and start walking again. When Lung gets in close and tries to pulp my head with a fist, I duck under and spin past him, pushing myself via my shell, extending and retracting the bone around my body. It took a month to learn how to keep my balance while moving under my power, and longer for it to be faster than walking. Once I'm behind the dragon, I flick out a blade of bone to cut the muscles on the back of his legs and move on. Lung finds it remarkably difficult to stand without his Achilles tendon. Not sure how long it'll take for him to heal that. A different 'banger charges, a black-haired girl no older than I am. Go easy then. I lash out with a bone club at her jaw and get an unfortunate crunch for my troubles. She falls to the alley floor and I resolve to lower the amount of force I'm going to use on the rest of the gang.

Something ugly grabs my stomach when I see her scamper away. In the low light, I could almost mistake her for a sister.

The rest of the group is backing up. Why? My world is fire again and I barely manage to keep down a scream. Ah. Right. Dragon-man. Right behind me but still capable of throwing fire. He can wait. Ah ha ha ha, _Lung_ can wait. I push down the pain and hysteria and charge the normals, forming a pair of big, showy blades in either hand. They run. Good.

I turn around and catch a fist to my face. Silly me, I thought I was scary. They were running from _Lung_ , the dragon man that wants me dead. The bone lattice in my mask collapses, folding like a car fender to lessen the impact. Then the bone plate behind it flexes, almost breaking. Every broken spindle is suffering, but I'm alive.

Then Lung raises his hand and once again my world is fire. This time I send out needles from my back as I stagger, hoping to find flesh.

I slip, feeling concrete impact my back. There's a roar of rage, almost not human. I struggle to my feet and watch Lung pulls spines from his chest with slick, sucking noises. He's definitely taller now too, and I see some scales peeking over his skin.

"Kill you, motherfucker," he manages, mask falling to the ground. "Leave you in pieces."

I run out of the street and back into the alley. Maybe I can lose the dragon man and not get burned. I stifle a noise, not sure if it was a laugh or a scream. On the one hand, some _goddamn wish fulfillment_! Finally! On the other hand, I'm in a fight with _Lung_! Fuck!

There's a whoosh, and I take a look over my shoulder in time to see Lung charging after me, fire illuminating the cramped alley. Fuck. Too close to run. I turn fully to face him and press bone pillars out from my boots, turning a retreat into a charge of my own. I slip beneath his outstretched arms, project a bone spike from my chestplate to stop his knee (a joint the size of my head), and slam a lance of bone through his stomach, angling up to get at the squishy organs. I have the momentum, and we're both flying back out into the street, tearing at one another. The pain is manageable when measured against the missing chunks of flesh from Lung.

Then the other knee comes around and crunches into my side. Agony. We break apart and I skid across the ground, using bone protrusions to turn it into a roll, then to standing. No good route away yet, and he's getting bigger. Lung pushes a hand towards me and a wave of fire answers, head height or more, completely obscuring my vision. I extend my own hands and form a wall of bone, snapping off my connection once it's twice as wide as my outstretched arms. The fracture hurts, but it's barely registers as a twinge compared to having my shell set alight. Then I step the side and wait. Come on, take the bait you overgrown lizard. Do it do it do it do it _do it_.

Lung crashes through, sending chunks of bone everywhere, already reaching for where I was. I slam a lance into his side, the shaft splintering a little as it slips through the barely-there gaps in his armor. I hiss at the feeling of ripped fingernail and torn scabs from when the lance scrapes against the edge of his scales. Huh, he's nearly covered now. That means I won't be able to hurt him for much longer.

Then I form spikes _inside_ him and spin them around, pureeing his organs. He tries to roar, but it comes out as a pained gasp. It doesn't stop him from backhanding me, and I roll with it, feeling only stings where bone plates scrape against asphalt, not shatter. It can't be a tenth of what he feels. Maybe I can run now.

By the time I'm back up Lung's torn the lance from his stomach, leaving gore on the ground. Hm, there's a lot of that around, isn't there? And he seems no worse for wear. Ah ha ha ha, he's no-selling enough trauma _to kill people_. Also, that did _not_ incapacitate him for as long as I had hoped it would. He's even taller now, at least ten feet. He bends over, a pair of protrusions emerging from his back. Maybe he does grow wings. I probably won't be able to run if that happens. When he gets back up to standing, he's closer to twelve feet. He looks at me, mouth more feline than human, with something in between rage and caution in his eyes.

Caution?

He charges, wreathing himself in a corona of flames, blue-white and hot enough to feel through armor. Every step tears up a chunk of pavement, until he leaps no less than two stories and aims for me. Perfect.

I brace against the ground and make a pillar of bone, pointed and sharp. Lung tries, but he can't alter his flight enough to avoid it. He howls when his own weight impales him, and the sound of it soothes away the moment of blinding white misery from when the dragon's weight is too much and the pike shatters.

I roll away before he can crush me and scramble to my feet, reorienting myself. Then I take a moment to really look at Lung. He stands far more than head and shoulders above me now, mouth splitting into four separate jaws, every inch of skin covered with metallic scales. He bellows, shaking the few unshattered windows in their frames, a silver juggernaut illuminated by fire and a single unbroken street lamp.

I laugh at him with that shaky, warbling laugh that the really crazy people have. It's probably too late to run. Maybe I'll die. But goddamn if this isn't more fun than Current Affairs.

Then something fast, blue and silver slams into Lung's knee from behind and he staggers. An opening. I push forward, projecting and retracting bone pillars to gain height and speed, enough total velocity that the trash-can sized club I slam into his howling mouth breaks teeth. There's a clap, louder than any of the gang members', and Lung falls to his knees. Something like the sound of a sledge hammer against a bag of nickles only _so much more so_ happens just behind him and I get thrown free, using my bones to cut the air and guide my fall.

Strange. Don't remember practicing that.

When I roll back to my feet, I see a man in silver and blue power armor dancing around Lung's feet, swinging a polearm with a glowing blade, leaving charred gouges where it meets metallic scale. Another man launches lighting, flitting between blasts of flame in flickers of light. Every so often Lung staggers from an invisible force, and the clap of gunfire comes in close behind. I see a glowing figure smacking a red one in intervals. Then the red figure becomes a blur, there's another nickels and sledgehammers sound and Lung's chest caves in, the man in red retreating to the glowing figure.

The Protectorate. I feel a little hope. Then I quash it. Mask. Back to the fight. Running now wouldn't be the heroic thing to do.

I dash in, retracting and projecting bone to lengthen and quicken my steps, adding extensions modeled after a sprinter's prosthetics. A thunderbolt screams, and a blackened patch of scales falls off Lung. I jump, dead in the air for a split second, and slide a spear of bone into his chest, already growing spikes in the cavity, looking for something to slice. I get a swipe of an arm larger than some motorcycles for my troubles, and manage to avoid pancaking into the pavement by judicious application of long, bendy columns of bone that take the force, then snap. Pain. Once I'm on the ground again, I take a moment to process it.

"Who are you?"

I spin around and form a pair of bone needles from my wrists. Red bodysuit, with black racing stripes meeting into a 'V' on the chest. Velocity, the local speedster. I manage to not react with extraordinary violence.

He raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Just looking for an answer."

I nod and open my mouth, ready to answer, when a roar punctuates the background. His hands drop and he yells "RUN!" before disappearing in a red blur. I take his advice, juking left just in time to be roasted rather than crushed. More pain. Shed the armor, push off the ground, run. Can't take him on my own, and he's never been captured in a straight fight, no matter how many parahumans are against him. Maybe retreat _is_ the heroic thing here.

I flee, dodging blasts of flame and feet large enough to crush dumpsters. In between moments of panic, I catch sight of the heroes of the city at work. Armsmaster, all whirling blades and precision. Assault, a red blur that infrequently hits Lung with the force of his partner Battery's punches. The ever present staggers and twitches from Lung, work of Dauntless from up high and Miss Militia from who knows how far away. With the Protectorate running interference, I manage to run fast enough to stay alive. There's a red blur, and something's taped to my mask. Can't see it, but there's a beeping noise and suddenly someone's talking.

"Unidentified parahuman, are you willing to help combat Lung?" A gruff voice, coming from what's probably a radio, one that reminds me of the less sociable Dock workers Dad sometimes put up at our house when things got bad.

I'm too out of breath to do anything other than nod and hope that it goes through. Maybe who ever built the thing added a motion tracking function? Fuck, running for your life is tiring. I corner, extend a hooked pole to catch a light post, and swing to the side, keeping as much momentum as possible as I take a moment to look back. Lung tries to follow, tries being the operative word. He has too much mass and stumbles, giving a red blur enough time to catch him. Not Velocity, given the sledge hammer and nickels sound as Lung's knee explodes. Assault moves back as Lung starts struggling to his feet, flesh already moving back over the bone. Bone.

I reach out and _pull_. His kneecap bends to my will, inverting and forming a rose head out of habit. Lung roars in pain and I feel something resisting my power, trying to pull the bones back into place. I flex my power once more and snap the bone along the petals before rounding another corner, eager to get away.

Huh. No pain when breaking other people's bones. Good to know. Back to running.

A red blur with black streaks pulls up beside me and starts talking. "Were the bones you?"

I nod. In. Out. Keep running.

"What are your limits?" he presses, voice coming out distorted and strange. I shrug, holding up my index finger.

"First time you-" the rest is cut off when a shadow appears over both of us and we split off, clearing the street as the now nearly-winged dragon man to crash down between us.

An incoherent roar shakes me to my bones and another wave of fire rolls over me. Agony. I fall to a knee and look up. And up. And up. Lung looms, easily fourteen feet tall, inhuman and surrounded by flame.

I freeze up as I realize I'm about to die. I'm going to become a statistic. Just another independent hero, dead in the streets, used to convince kids to join the Wards.

Then there's another sledgehammer and nickels sound and one of his legs explodes mid-thigh. He roars, falling down and instinctively putting out a hand to catch himself, eyes filled with surprise. Eyes.

I launch myself up, aiming for his face. A burst of flame nearly ashes my armor to the skin. Nearly. One needle of bone up his nose, one into his brain. Puncture and branch. When resistance is encountered, spread and scrape. Like rubbing a compound fracture against a cheesegrater. I scream. One spike finds an opening, and I follow it. Lung starts jerking. His brain. I form more spikes and start twitching them around, searching for something, anything critical.

He's got to have limits, right?

Claws scrapes my back plate. I stop trying to be fancy and simply shove _as much bone as possible_ into his brain. Something hot and sharp and _oh fuck I can feel his claws in my spine and why can't I feel my legs_?

Then the claws stop wriggling and the fires stop growing. Someone starts talking and I black out.


	3. Algor Mortis 3

When I wake up, it's a jerky, sudden thing, like coffee and an electrocution. Before my mind is fully settled, a large, metal-clad hand settles on my shoulder. "Easy." The gruff voice from the fight. Right. I fought Lung. And won? "I've injected you with some mild stimulants." I finally connect it to the armored figure standing next to my bed. "You may experience heightened emotional states over the course of the next few minutes. As such, the Protectorate cannot use anything you say against you, nor will you be held accountable for what you say. Do you understand?" The visor looks down impassively, while the exposed skin forms a hard line.

Armsmaster. Leader of the local Protectorate. The seventh most powerful hero in the Protectorate, and the second best Tinker in the world. Standing at my bedside.

I jerk a hand up, worried for my mask. Bone clicks against bone, and I sigh in relief. Armsmaster notices and holds up his right hand.

"The Protectorate does not unmask capes unless necessary for medical attention. If that is done, the nurses will sign NDA's. Revealing a cape's identity is illegal in all but the most extreme circumstances, and nothing you have done falls under those categories." With every clause, I feel myself relax a little more until I'm laying back against the cool sheets. I idly shift the bone plates I have on me, searching for missing pieces. Most of them are still there save for my lower back, which is almost completely bare. I feel myself flush a little as I realize the implications. Mask on, they're professionals and they've probably seen better anyway.

"What-" I cough harshly before I finish. God, I'm thirsty. Armsmaster offers a cup of water. I take it and nod thanks, sitting up just enough to be able to drink. After swallowing some down, I swill and spit, trying to clear the vile taste from my mouth. Once I don't taste ash and sweat, I look up at the hero. "What happened? I remember getting clawed in the back, but after that..."

"Assault temporarily crippled Lung. You then stabbed Lung in the eye and put enough solid bone into his brain to kill him," Armsmaster says bluntly. Huh. It wasn't a dream. "We took you out from under his corpse and Isidis came in and fixed your body." I make a mental note to find some way to say thank you, creepy corpse-grafting powers aside. "Which brings us to the crux of the matter: Lung."

Fuck.

I put the cup down and sit up, sliding my legs off the bed and filling out all missing the plates in my armor, once more encased in my power. Armsmaster sighs and moves into my line of sight, blocking the door. "At the time of death, Lung was twenty-six feet tall. The Protectorate doesn't normally engage him when he is that large, partially due to concerns about collateral damage and partially due to lack of firepower." His frown deepens when he says that last bit. A sore point? "You forced us to engage, and while he is now dead, the rest of the ABB will be out for blood."

I stand up, managing to keep from wobbling. Half of that is the new lower back, certainly with more muscle than I had initially (definitely going to be thanking Isidis) and half is gratuitous use of my bone shell to force limbs to move to where they're supposed to go. I turn my head with my shell and look at the clock. Four seventeen. If I sprint, I might be able to get home before Dad notices I'm gone.

"In the interest of ensuring your personal safety and wellbeing, I'd like to extend an invitation to the Wards," Armsmaster finishes, moving to stand in front of me.

"I have to get home," I state, looking Armsmaster in the eye. "I will be more than willing to talk to you at a later date, but currently I have a life." A pathetic one, but it's mine. "One that requires me to be home before dawn. So if you would _please_ step out of my way, that would be greatly appreciated." Some quiet voice in the back of my head is jabbering about autographs and brushing off the seventh best hero in the Protectorate, but I quash it down. The mask is still on, and I need to be home before Dad wakes up.

Armsmaster's frown is still there, but he steps back into the hallway. I nod and move past him. Huh. In heels and lifts, I'm actually taller than he is. He keeps pace beside me as I stalk towards the elevator.

"I would be willing to provide with transport to a location of your choosing," Armsmaster offers, staring straight ahead. "It would not have to be your home. Instead, a nearby neighborhood, from which you would walk."

Does he think I'm an idiot? "I would prefer for my identity to remain a secret," I respond coldly, stopping in front of the elevator and turning to face him. "Please stop digging for information." Take the hint, asshole. Again, the voice in the back of my head is telling me to shut up and listen. Mask on.

Armsmaster's expression changes from stern to surprised. "I was not attempting to divine your identity. I was simply offering a service." He presses the call button to the elevator. "Out of curiosity, how much do you know about the cape community?"

* * *

I end up taking the ride while Armsmaster gives me a crash course on cape politics. Identities are sacred, reveal them at your own risk. Endbringers and the Nine are big game, everyone works together against them in good faith. Don't be too aggressive, because then everyone on the other side will team up to try and kill you. Don't maim unnecessarily unless you want to be maimed unnecessarily. Don't kill. I let out a tired little laugh when I hear that last one. It seems absurd, that people with the power to level cities in minutes have a fucking _social contract_.

At the same time, it makes an odd sort of sense. Anytime you've got a group of people, you have quiet agreements. I don't go after your family, you don't go after mine. You keep things small scale, I won't bring Alexandria down on your head. _As long as you only torment the unpopular kids-_

In. Out. Mask is still on, and today is a good day. So far.

I get off about ten minutes from home. He gives me his card and offers to make an appointment. I give him my cape name and tell him that I'll call him when I have the time. He appears to takes the statement at face value and drives off into the night.

Once I'm sure that no one is looking, I sprint back home, hopping fences while thinking about what I've done.

Lung's dead. Confirmed by the Protectorate. The ABB are going to need to make a statement to stay near the top of the heap. If they don't, the Empire or some other no-name gang will pounce. The best thing they could do is swift and brutal vengeance on Lung's killer.

I think about the other ABB capes Armsmaster told me about. Oni Lee, a teleporter that left behind clones with a penchant for suicide runs. Bakuda, an explosives Tinker who held Cornell hostage for receiving a bad grade. The synergy isn't hard to see, and it's one that bones don't do shit against.

My strategizing gets cut off as I come up on home. Funny, I don't think I was running that long. I shrug and come in the back door, using my bones to open the lock. After changing back into my pyjamas, I head back up into my room and lay down on the bed, ready to get an extra hour of sleep before school.

It's not happening. I figure that out after I turn over to look at my alarm clock for the umpteenth time and find that it's still not yet five. I give up and go back to thinking.

The rage has faded. Apparently fighting Lung to the death was enough to get it to quiet down. I probably won't have to worry about slaughtering anyone at school. I let out a breath and think about the upcoming week. Five days of verbal and physical abuse. Forty hours of being on guard, looking for escape routes, getting caught anyway, and leaving with my work destroyed. 2400 non-consecutive minutes of petty teenagers telling me why I'm worthless.

I think about quitting. I'd be free of the abuse, and what is school even teaching me anyway? Computer science is a joke, I have no interest in chemistry, I already know more about biology that the teacher does thanks to the research I did before I went out patrolling, and Current Events hasn't taught me anything that I can't get at the library. I could teach myself, skip all the bullshit, and I wouldn't have to put up with Emma. On paper, it sounds great.

I groan and roll onto my side, closing my eyes and trying to feel even a little bit tired. No matter how much I try to spin it, I can't see a world where dropping out ends up being the right decision. Dad wouldn't take it well. He'd want me to go to a good college, and that's hard to do when your transcript says 'quit school with poor grades and was home schooled.' Plus, Mom would roll over in her grave if she heard I was dropping out. It'd also take a hell of a lot more paperwork for the administration, and they'd like that about as much as they'd like to finally acknowledge that I have a problem.

That, and it'd mean they won. That I wasn't strong enough.

Fuck. That.

I notice some barely-subdermal bones that've pressed up. I push them back down, mournful that I can't use them to take some of the more serious blows from Sophia. I go over all the same arguments. If Sophia pushed me into a corner and the bone met the corner at the right angle, it would tear skin. Then, when the skin healed over in full sight of everyone else, I'd be outed. Simple. Then they'd all go to Blackwell, insist that I'd threatened them somehow, and the Protectorate would be on my ass faster than Velocity. Emma's dad would use his lawyering to get me 'Caged or sent to prison, and that would be that.

No. Better just take my lumps and wait for an opportunity.

When I look back at the clock it reads five fifteen. That's not such a weird time to wake up, right? Even if it's not, I'm still not sleepy enough to go back to bed. I sigh and head down to the kitchen. A quick omelet, with random veggies and bacon. I eat efficiently, barely tasting the food, then go out for a run.

I've been at it long enough that I don't start wheezing after just a few minutes. I haven't been going long enough to not lose breath, though. I ride the high of the pleasant, mild burn in my muscles, and before it becomes sickening weakness I take a break, slowing down to a jog.

Could I use my powers to run faster? Probably. Fuse the joints, then move them in typical running speed. It'd take a bit to get used to, though. That, and it wouldn't address the reason I keep running. Running with my power wouldn't build muscles. It would be taking the easy way out, admitting that I didn't _want_ to do something, not that I _couldn't_.

I start running again.

By the time I get home Dad's out of the shower and frying bacon. He looks up from the pan and gives me a tired smile. It makes the wrinkles on his face look that much deeper.

"Up and running already?" he asks, absentmindedly pushing some of the bacon around the pan.

I shrug. "Woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep. Figure I'd run."

He nods politely and turns back to the bacon. I deflate a little, but honestly? This about as deep as things go. Neither of us were particularly talkative before Mom died, and afterwards we both just sort of... drew into ourselves. I figured if I didn't talk about it, I'd move on. And I did. Dad probably thought the same way, and threw himself into the Sisyphean task of keeping the Dockworkers' Union afloat.

We're both managing. Barely.

I grab some cereal and sit down at the table, waiting for the bacon. I can shower later. Cold bacon is atrocious, and we don't spend enough time together as is.

Conversation is light and sparse as we eat, but at least it's not awkward. Dad talks a little about the Union, and how it's doing. Never good, but there are variations of stagnant. Fine means 'bad,' acceptable means 'head above water,' and alright means that 'there hasn't been a backslide and we're waiting for the other shoe to drop.' Right now things are alright. I talk a little about some of the books I've read recently. The Count of Monte Cristo, Frankenstein, and the Great Gatsby.

Neither of us mention school. Neither of us mention the extra table setting that always goes unused. It's easier that way.

Eventually, the bacon is gone. We both sit there awkwardly for a moment, him with a cup of cold coffee dregs and me with a bowl a third full of milk. He at the clock and pushes away from the table, throwing back the last of the coffee.

"Well, I'm heading out now. Have a good day, okay?" The tired smile is back, but it looks a little less brittle than it did before we sat down. I smile back.

"I'll try."

Dad leaves and I drop the smile. Time to shower, pack whatever I need for classes, and step back into Taylor's life.


	4. Algor Mortis Interlude

The scent of copper in the debris-filled mall is overwhelming, the screams high and sharp. I shut them out, trying to get through the people running away from the living Nazi chainsaw. Vicky hasn't come out of the boutique yet. I shove aside a distracted-looking woman with cuts along the side of her face and run in, barely hearing the receding sounds of chainsaw limbs. It takes too long to find her among the reds and pinks of the Valentine's Day specials. Too long to realize that somehow Hookwolf got a tangle of blades through her force field, that she's missing important pieces. Too long to get a hand over her mess of a stomach and realize that she's not bleeding as much because there's not much blood left.

No no no no no no nononono

She smiles up at me, shaky and sad. "Hey Ames," she says, too softly. I feel something flutter under my hands. Maybe her lungs. "How's it look?" she asks, dragging in a raspy breath. More blood flows over my hands.

"F-fine," I lie, looking around for options. A first aid kit, a coat, something to apply pressure to the wound. "You're going to turn out alright. It's just a-"

"Ames, tell Mom and Dad I love them, alright?" she interrupts, smiling gently. "I love you too." She leans her head back, blond hair mixing with sticky red, and closes her eyes.

No.

/-/

Something flashes, two beings, incomprehensibly large, mixing and not mixing in equal measures. A shard flies down, growing larger and larger in perspective, until it consumes the horizon.

/-/

I blink, something receding into the back of my mind. When I look at Victoria, I see light fading from her. It's not light, but it's something like that, my brain trying to make sense of new input. I know I can bring Vicky's light back.

There. Things, red and wet and filled with their own dimming light. I grab them, scooping up the slippery bits and pressing them into Victoria's stomach. I tell them to glow again, to work. They do. The light looks different from Vicky's light, so I tell them to match. They do. They try to slide out when I move my hand so I tell them to bind. They do. Vicky's light stops fading, but doesn't get brighter. I need more. I look around, straining my eyes to find some more material.

That's how they find me, pressing the slippery insides of Hookwolf's collaterals into Victoria, trying to help her shine again.

I look down at the man. "He's not glowing anymore. I can't help him."

"Bullshit!" the cape yells, glowing menacingly as he leans over his friend's dead body. "You've brought back people who were missing everything south of their heads before! He bled out, you can just-"

"Flare," a quiet voice says, and he spins around to see Legend, standing just be him with a mournful look on his face. "Isidis will not work on corpses with brain damage. The times she has tried, it went poorly. You know this," he finishes, leaning and hugging the cape. "You both knew that Isidis can't save everyone."

I wish I could stay and console him. I wish I could talk to my patients, use my breath for something besides running between hospital beds while hauling buckets of gore. Instead I turn away from the crying man and grab a handful of fresh, shining flesh and slap the mess onto a gaping chest wound. A bit drips off the side of the stretcher, dripping to the floor in a now-familiar rhythm.

The aftermath of Endbringer fights always has more raw material than I need for the survivors.

"Amy, wake up!"

"Ugh, five more minutes," I grumble, dragging the blanket back over my head. Half-remembered, half-coherent dreams float around my skull, involving odd shines and shards.

"Someone's hurt," the voice says, and I wake up properly. Victoria is holding my late-night costume, a quick, warm pullover robe with an ankh on the front and isoprene gloves with elbow-length sleeves. Not particularly attractive, but enough for a night-call.

"Details," I demand, dragging the robe over my pj's and trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes. God, I hate late nights.

"Lung fought some new parahuman and got killed, but not before crippling her," Vicky says, walking over to the window and opening it up.

"Lung's dead?" I ask incredulously, voice muffled by the robe.

"That's all Aunt Sarah would tell me," Victoria says, an apologetic note in her voice. Once I'm fully clothed, she carefully picks me up in a bridal carry and floats us out. "I'm going to speed up now, 'kay?" I give her a nod and try to keep my heart rate down.

Flying never ceases to be terrifying. Even with Victoria carting me around, even knowing she's strong enough to pound cars into scrap, having only a pair of arms separating myself from a drop at near-highway speeds is unpleasant.

Soon enough we get Brockton General, where about half the Protectorate is present. Miss Militia nods as we pass by her, while Dauntless gives a little wave, which Victoria returns with a smile. Meanwhile, Armsmaster guides me to the ICU.

"Severed spine, with ruptured kidneys and bowels," he says, looking straight ahead. "A cadaver has been supplied and is resting next to the body. Can you give me any estimates as to time to recover?"

I think back to Abidjan, where I put a man back together from the waist down. "Not more than a few minutes," I answer. "Is she on antibiotics?" It took a while to understand disease well enough to make working with old corpses viable. Longer to make it a good idea.

"My own," he responds, opening a door to reveal a face-up pasty 20-something corpse, already cut open and waiting for me to transform it into someone else's living flesh. Next to her is a woman hooked up to half a dozen medical machines, lying on her stomach with plates of bone covering everything save for her lower back. That's been torn open and bandaged roughly, with a little red seeping through.

Not even the worst thing I've seen this week.

I stride forward, grab a pair of scissors, and snip away the bandages. Once that's done I scoop some flesh from from the corpse and press it into the new parahuman. Match glow. Bind. Help. Another scoop. Match glow. Bind. Help.

By the time I'm done, the corpse's abdominal cavity is gutted (ah, gallows humor) and the new parahuman is patched up. I detach the sleeves of my uniform and toss them into a biohazard bin, then walk out of the room.

Armsmaster follows close behind. "Status?"

"She'll be fine," I answer, suppressing a yawn. "Get the doctors to flip her on her back and listen to whatever treatment they prescribe. Now if you don't mind, I have to get up to go to school in," I check the clock in the wall, "less than five hours and I'd like to get some sleep in that time."

Armsmaster nods and gives me an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Thank you for your time, Isidis. Your payment will be deposited as an addendum to our monthly bill."

"Keep shelling out and I'll give you all the time you want," I mutter back, walking back to where Vicky and MM are talking. "Patient's patched up, can we go back home now?" I ask Vicky, interrupting their conversation.

"Sure," she says too quickly, walking over towards the door. "Nice talking, see you later!" she blurts out to Miss Militia just before the door closes. She scoops me up into a bridal carry and kicks off, not bothering to warn me this time. I _hate_ it when she does that. She knows that I hate it, and usually is mindful enough to at least give me some warning when no one's in danger. What did MM say to set her off?

Once we're home and I've stopped shivering, I pull out a pair of mugs from the cabinet and sit down at the table. One with a little tiara, one with a caduceus. "Vicky, we should talk."

"About what?" she asks, grabbing the cocoa powder and milk, recognizing the signs.

"Why'd you run from Miss Militia?" I ask. Vicky's aura flares and I wince at the rush of adoration. Must've been something bad, then. "Vicky, aura."

"Right, right," she says, pouring the milk into a saucepan and flicking on the stove. "It's, uh..."

"Did you hurt someone?" I ask quietly. Her aura flares and I twist my leg, using the pain to cut through the fuck off/fuck me feelings. "Miss Militia wanted you to join the Wards to work on not causing as much collateral damage?" It wouldn't be too surprising, given that only Carol's legal expertise has kept Vicky from being forced into the Wards. That, and some free medical care for the victims from me. Vicky's aura flares again, and I feel blood rush to my face.

As disturbing as it is to suddenly want to have sex with your sister, it's nice that she can't lie about anything of substance.

I sigh and stand up. Vicky's still staring at the saucepan, occasionally tilting it to mix the milk, hiding behind her tangled blonde locks. No matter what bullshit powers Vicky has looking after her body, even she can't fix bed-head automatically. I give her a gentle hug from behind.

"Messing up doesn't make you a bad person, Vicky," I say softly in her ear, resting my chin on her shoulder. "It means you need practice."

I hear creaking as she squeezes the handle of the saucepan. "But when I go out to practice, I put a pickpocket in the hospital!" she says, her voice tinged with hysteria and depression. Her aura is at full blast, sending waves of desire and fear through me, both contributing to my shaky knees and flushing face. I flex my shoulders forward, against the muscle, embracing the pain and focus on that. "How am I supposed to get better at not hurting people when every time I try someone gets hurt!? How is that learning?" She's not quite screaming, but it's close.

"Do you think the milk is done?" I ask, turning her attention back to the pan. Vicky takes a deep breath and I feel her stomach expand against my hands. When she exhales, her aura dies down to almost nothing and she turns off the stove.

We both stand there, lapsing into silence.

"Thanks," she says eventually, "For listening to me bitch and moan."

"Thanks for heating the milk," I respond evenly. "Let's drink it before it gets cold."

We sit down and mix our drinks, me with my paltry one scoop of cocoa powder and a pinch of powdered pepper and Victoria with her two scoops and chocolate sauce. Such a sweet tooth.

Carol comes down the stairs with a bleary look in her eyes, unfocused until she sees us sitting there, drinking cocoa. "Who got hurt?" she asks, sitting down at the table next to Vicky, "And did they pay you?"

Vicky looks at her with a surprised expression, as if deducing that me in costume late at night could come from any other situation. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Vicky, I love you to death, but goddamn you're dense sometimes.

"New parahuman got into a fight with Lung," I say, taking a sip of my drink. "And yes, Armsmaster added it to their monthly fee."

Carol winces. "How bad was it?"

"Severed spin and some internal organs," I answer. "But Lung's worse off."

Carol blinks, then turns to Vicky for confirmation. Vicky nods. Carol looks back to me, then leans back in her chair, gazing at the ceiling.

"Well, that will change things," she says quietly. I nod. When Carol learned that my power involved dead people, it took her about five seconds to contact a parahuman law specialist and figure out the legal hoops I'd have to jump through to get consistent access to corpses, as well as the names of three or four excellent therapists. Analyzing situations comes naturally to her, and I can only imagine what's going through her mind.

I finish off my drink and yawn. "Well, I'm going back to bed. 'Night," I manage to get out behind another yawn.

"'Night," Vicky and Carol call behind me, leaning towards one another and beginning to talk shop in hushed voices. They don't bother to try and convince me to join. For the best, honestly, I'd bite the next person who gets between me and a bed.

I stagger up the steps, through the door, and over to my bed. I barely manage to strip out of my costume before collapsing onto the sheets and letting the black fall over my consciousness.


	5. Rigor Mortis 1

"Oh Taylor, how great to see you! Tell me, did you go shopping? Because you've got some nice bags under those eyes!"

In. Out. Breathe. Mask on.

The other girls in the hall titter as I walk past Emma into Computer Science. Mrs. Knott glances at me as I walk in, then to the door. The bullies stick around, hurling backhanded compliments for a few more minutes until Mrs. Knott clears her throat and looks pointedly at the clock. They leave giggling, and Mrs. Knott takes role. I dutifully announce my presence when requested and turn in the calculator she had us make from Basic. Absurdly simple, but half the class has trouble with search browsers and email. Mrs. Knott knows she can't teach me anything without leaving everyone else behind, so after the first ten minutes she lets me do whatever. A small consolation for her lack of interference with the bullies, but it's something.

I log onto PHO, the hive of tinhats, cape fetishists and academics that is the closest thing civilians have to a cape database. I go to the homepage and start scrolling though. A new warlord gets eaten by Mord Naag, Eidolon shutting down a tsunami, Gesellschaft ties found to a prominent politician, ho hum. Another day on Earth Bet. I click over to the Brockton Bay section.

* * *

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 **Topic: Lung Killed by New Cape!  
In: Boards ► Board ► News ► Events ► America  
Bagrat **(Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)  
Posted On Apr 12th 2011:  
Late last night, a cape fight went down in Brockton Bay. Yeah, and water is wet. What's your point? Well, if you read the title of the thread, you know why.

The dragon's been slain. Not by a Nazi or a Protectorate hero (or even by a druggie), but by a new cape. Lung, that one guy that once fought off the *entire* local Protectorate on his own [link], got iced by a complete rookie.

To make sure the conversation stays focused on the event and not the new cape, I'm linking her new thread [here]. Speculate there.

Anyway, let's talk about it!

EDIT: [Link] to the Protectorate statement. Long story short, they're investigating and examining the law to see if the killing was justified, and encourage White Rose to join the Wards so she doesn't end up in the situation again.

 **(Showing page 1 of 12)**

 **►XxVoid_CowboyxX**  
Replied On Apr 12th 2011:  
Hell yeah! Fuck Lung, guy was pox on the city!

 **PSA: Do not antagonize Dragons. Or the servants of Dragons. That is all. -Tin Mother**

 **►Haven't_Had_Enough_"Apple_Juice"_Yet**  
Replied On Apr 12th 2011:  
Ah, what better way to start the conversation than Cowboy getting slapped down.

In all seriousness, wow. I did NOT expect to wake up to this. When it's five o'clock in Brockton Bay, I'm going to celebrate this with something nice.

 **►V0L1T1L3**  
Replied On Apr 12th 2011:  
 **Post Removed**

 **User received a 2-week ban for this post: Do not make death threats. Enjoy your ban. -Tin_Mother**

 **►2nd_Tier_Laughtrack** (Not Funny)  
Replied On Apr 12th 2011:  
Well, without the rage-man dragon the Protectorate down, do you think they'll use this opportunity to push back the E88 or ignore it like the other nein? Or will they weed out the Merchants?

 **►R8me8/8**  
Replied On Apr 12th 2011:  
Well, I'm glad to know the streets are safer at night. I wonder how the new cape looks under the armor, and who she's going to join?

 **►AlephLooksNice** (Wannabe Dimension Hopper)  
Replied On Apr 12th 2011:  
Probably the Protectorate, R8me8/8, given that she fought a villain on her first night out. I mean, SURE she could be a new cape for one of the other gangs, but I can't imagine Kaiser or Skidmark holding in news like that and also allowing them to go out on patrol.

 **►Bottl$ &Blah4+20 **  
Replied On Apr 12th 2011:  
I mean, its a rael question. Like, the Merchents could totally hok her up.

 **►OneGoddamnMonocle** (Tries To Hard) (Not Quite a Hipster)  
Replied On Apr 12th 2011:  
As this grammatically challenged fellow denotes, killers rarely make good heroes. The natural counterpoint is Shadow Stalker, our own little redemption story, but she is hardly a social butterfly.

If the cape in question would want to defend herself, this poster would welcome a formal statement on their stance.

 **►CharlotteHolmes**  
Replied On Apr 12th 2011:  
I'd actually like to offer this new cape some employment. PM for details

 **End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 10, 11, 12**

* * *

I look at the message from CharlotteHolmes and lean back in my chair. Who hears that a new murderous cape is in town and offers them employment? Two answers spring to mind, neither good. One, the person is stupid. Occam's razor and all that. The same impulse that sends Brocktonites to the streets with their phones out when two capes start whacking away at each other probably also inspires people to approach murderous parahumans.

The other reason is that the person wants a _murderer_ in their employ. In which case I don't want to work for them. I'm not looking to add 'semi-professional hit woman' to my resume. Still, I allow myself a moment to entertain the possibility.

On the one hand, employment. Presumably with a decent paycheck. Parahumans rarely make less than six figures. Hell, the Wards get minimum wage plus a 50k a year trust fund. I figure that number only goes up on the villain side.

On the other hand, villain. I grind two of my toe bones together and use the pain to refocus. No working for villains. No doing villainous things. Don't let them break you.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the one halfway acceptable class of the day. On the way out, I see Mrs. Knott looking at me with something close to pity. I deliberately break eye contact. She lost the right to feel sorry when she walked past my sobbing form in the hallway after Emma burned me out of her family photos.

Next class starts off with a bottle of orange juice poured over my usual seat. Madison, most likely. Childish and inconvenient, but ultimately worthless. Sophia's the same, honestly. Turns out a Brute rating is wonderful for pain tolerance. I grab another seat near the door and wait for class to start. One guy walks in and stands near me, looking down awkwardly. Guess I took his chair. I look him in the eye. He looks away after a few seconds, flush rising to his cheeks. He's one of the ones who dislikes my situation, but is too much of coward to do anything about it. So he lets me win when he can, giving up his seat to the poor little social outcast.

Victim perks.

Gladly groups us into fours, putting me with Greg (a dumb nerd), Sparky (a drummer) and one of Madison's flunkies (a bitch). Greg starts to go on about some game, Sparky puts his head down, and the flunkie promptly starts chatting with another group of girls. See, half of my academic failure is constant sabotage and emotional distress. The other half is working with people who wouldn't learn _if I held a blade to their throat and whispered in their ear to listen to me or_ -

I idly snap my toe bone to refocus. I guess that killing Lung didn't get rid of all the rage. On the other hand, only one murderous thought before lunch time. Progress!

Fifteen minutes later, Gladly looks around for groups who are ready to present. I make the mistake of looking into his eyes, and he takes it as a sign of interest. Fuck. While walking through the aisles and stepping over an outstretched foot, I idly wonder about how he got a job as a teacher when he was so completely incapable of reading a room.

Once I'm up front, I start bullshiting.

"The thing everyone really focuses on when they think about capes is the entertainment industry. People like Bad Canary, Limelight, and Glamshow who baseline humans can't compete with. Slightly less noticeable are the advances in technology, which came shortly after scientists started trying to reverse-engineer Tinker tech." Mr. Gladly is paying rapt attention, and he's the only one. Madison's group is chatting away idly in the back while the other students are paying just enough attention not to get called out. "They couldn't replicate anything, but the scraps that they could pull out were enough to advance civilian technology almost a decade ahead of previous schedules. Even less noticeable is the effect parahumans have had on the economy." Fucking NEPEA-5 bill. When you look at how Brutes aren't allowed to work in construction, Movers can't provide civilian transportation, and Shakers are banned from landscaping, you really start to feel for The Elite. Until you look up Bastard Son, at least. "This is partly due to legislation attempting to keep the market fair, and partially due to most people's lack of interest."

"Crime is at an all-time high as well," I add casually, "Given that heroes are outnumbered at least two to one in most areas." A few people shift in their seats at the mention of outnumbered heroes. Probably thinking about how E88 has more capes than the Protectorate and Wards combined. "Honestly though? The biggest change is that people are more afraid now. You've got a bunch of random people running around in civilian clothing with the ability to tear down city blocks on a whim." A few people flinch a little at that. It's amazing what you can get used to when you don't think about it too much. "On a related note, gun ownership is also at an all-time high. Most of these purchases are motivated by a desire for self defense," I add. No idea if it's true, but it seems reasonable. I walk back to my desk, ducking out of the way of a spitball and stoically take some pencil shavings to the face. Daring to be a reasonable speaker in class is going to come back to bite me in the ass.

Fuck 'em.

The rest of the groups shamelessly add pieces of my presentation to theirs, but Gladly waves it away as 'being inspired by a classmate'. Some random group ends up winning an inane prize of some sort, and I sleep through the rest of class.

When I hear the bell, I jolt awake, disturbing the plastic bottle on top of my head. Fortunately, it falls forward, spilling soda all over my borrowed desk and drawing giggles from a group of girls. Oh, wow, practical jokes! They're so funny, with no cost to us whatsoever! The height of comedy and sophistication!

On my way out Gladly makes eye contact. "Taylor, can I talk with you for a moment?"

I walk next to him. "Moment's passing fast," I comment idly. Gladly registers as only slightly more important than, say, a mangy dog, but it's school. Students listen to teachers. Except when they don't.

"I'm not an idiot, Taylor." I bark out a laugh, but he keeps talking. Like by taking my criticism he gets to be a bigger man. "I know you're getting bullied. You probably know by who. But I can't help you without names. Tell me, and I'll do my best." He thinks it so simple, it makes me want to _shove splinters into him until they're the only thing keeping him together and the floor is painted red with his blood and_ -

I cut off the thought and look Gladly in the eye. Turns out that makes people uncomfortable. Which is exactly what I'm going for.

"Do you think _I'm_ an idiot?" I ask him, blunt as possible. He opens his mouth to respond and I give it exactly as much respect as he gives me. "I've talked to administration. I've done it with a teacher backing me up. I've done it in torn up clothes and covered in cat pee. They systematically refuse to punish the people I name, based on 'a lack of evidence'. My aggressors are popular and make the school look good, so they get away with it." I lean over the desk, invading his personal space. He backs up, his chair creaking as he tries to make more space between us. "Every time I tried, I have suffered 'revenge' that was far worse than the punishment the bullies got. There is no path you can think of that I have not considered. No idea that you can come up with that works better than taking my lumps and hoping the bullies get run over by a karmically-guided semi truck." Gladly looks like he wants to interject, like he wants to talk about how physical violence isn't proportional to talk. I stand up straight again. "Tell me Gladly, who actually laughs at your stupid jokes? Who _likes_ having group work? It's always the same damn people, and it's always the people who laugh the hardest whenever tacks or glue are on my seat. Rub your two brain cells together and figure it out."

I leave him like that, stepping out the room and into a semicircle of girls, who quickly pull me to the side, away from the doorway and prying eyes.

"What a fucking nerd. Maybe she's hoping to make some money in the future so she can pay a Merchant to fuck her."

"Nah, she's too stupid to get a job and too ugly to get fucked. She's probably just looking for the best way to kill herself."

"Betcha she'd spread her legs for Gladly if he promised to help her grades."

"Nah, he wouldn't fuck a frog on two legs. Maybe she could ask Squealer for tips on sucking diseased Merchant cock."

"I wonder how her father feels when she grumbles about not having friends as he fucks her?"

Abuse, vile, verbal and unrelenting. Everyone knows how it goes. I stand here, taking it, expressionless. Eventually, someone breaks through, usually Emma. I shed a tear, they all laugh, talk about how I can't take a joke, and then they leave me in the hallway so I can go snap off some roses.

The insults are barely coherent. One minute I'm stupid enough to eat dog shit because it looks like chocolate. The next I'm a pretentious bitch that will never make it in the real world no matter how well I play the school game. I'm going to die a virgin, but I'll take it up the ass for a fucking lollipop. I'm an attention whore, I'm an antisocial serial killer. It's a rambling, self contradictory mess designed to hurt.

In. Out. Mask on. Take it, condense it, and pack it away with the rest of the rage. Maybe Hookwolf wants to go a round or seven this weekend.

"Hey Taylor, you look like you're holding up pretty well here. You probably won't cry for a week from just this, right? Like you did when your mom died?" Emma leans forward a little, trying to ape the intimacy we had not even two years ago.

 _Blinding rage_. It takes every ounce of reason I have not to _explode into a whirlwind of blades and cudgels to turn their insides_ _ **out**_ _, warp bones beyond recognition, and leave them_ _ **flayed**_ _on the ground. Turn their bodies into ornaments, left on the side of the road as a warning not to EVER fuck with_ -

Mask Taylor. Mask. In. Out. I barely feel the tears flowing down my cheeks. The girls have their laugh and head off to class, leaving me alone with my fury in the hallway.

Options. I can head to class. This will probably be the worst thing that happens today. I managed not to kill them, so chances are the rest of the day will be hassle free. I could also go _Carrie_ on the school, run away to Canada, and then murder Heartbreaker to get enough cash to pay people to leave me alone.

Or I could leave and do something as White Rose.

By the time I consciously decide to place my education on hold, I'm already halfway to the doors.


	6. Rigor Mortis 2

To guest on chapter 5:

First, let me assure you that I am in fact mentally stable and _not_ projecting onto Taylor. Every bit of suffering you see in text here is, in fact, a calculated move.

Second, while you bring up many ways to address Taylor's problems, I'd like to remind you of a few things that giver her less agency than you appear to think she has:

1\. Taylor does not have a cell phone. Her Mom died because she was talking on the phone while driving, and as a result she and her father are not fans of the electronics. More to the point, this is 2011, not 2018. Smartphone saturation has not yet reached more than 75% of the population.

2\. The Slaughterhouse 9 literally kill cites for entertainment. They earn the name _murderhobo_ in a way that only the most depraved versions of the Joker even come close to. While Taylor is considering murdering her classmates, many people do that without having brain parasites that want them to actually go through with it.

3\. Taylor knows the ins and outs of her power, and cannot forget the pain, which she uses the most in her daily life as a coping mechanism, which is _not_ kosher with her shard. As a result, she has less control over her emotions, just as Amy in canon did. When she thinks of her power, she thinks of pain, and as a result thinks of showing kids the values of self harm as opposed to the values of being selfless.

4\. Lastly, Miss Militia doesn't have confirmed perfect memory. She just remembers the trigger vision perfectly. Is her power family friendly? No. Is she in America, where guns are more or less a fact of life? Did she have a perfect story backing her up? Did she have literally the greatest PR team in fiction working to make people forget she could mow down people left and right?

Let me clarify: the Protectorate can make Murderbeam McGoreface a family-friendly power. Failing that, they can find a job for anyone. Taylor could totally join the Protectorate/Wards. She just doesn't want to, for a variety of reasons.

Also, good news! Actual plot kicking into gear!

* * *

I run home, ditch my school supplies, and start looking for clothes I actually like. After scouring my wardrobe and finding nothing but grey sweatshirts, dark tees, and sweatpants, I give up and pull on a baggy sweatshirt over a quick-remove bra and sweats over a pair of briefs. I then pack my bag with paper, pencils, and some money before striding out the door, hopping on a bus, and heading downtown. I get off a few blocks away from my destination and strip in an alleyway. After making sure the bag is hidden, I armor up and walk to Longshire Park.

It's a deceptively large patch of green nestled among skyscrapers and office buildings with a pair of well-cared for swing sets, free of graffiti. Wide tracts of grass and dandelions surround the play equipment which typically have enough frisbees flying around to mess with radio signals.

But what really makes it something special is the view of the bay it has. Through some accident of zoning, no building nearby is allowed to be taller than twenty feet. Conveniently, the park has a hill significantly higher than twenty feet with a flat top. Prime wedding location, if you don't mind the occasional shot ruined by a cape in the background.

I walk into the park, ignoring the gawkers and the cape nuts trying to catch sight of a Protectorate hero departing from the Rig. I aim for the pretty side of the hill, angling my body to indicate a lack of interest in talk, and, wonder of wonders, the masses take the hint and leave the new cape alone.

I sit down near the top, able to fall onto my back or lean forward onto my knees at will. A few other people, some couples, some parents with toddlers, eye me with something like suspicion. I nod back and that seems to be enough to get them to calm down.

I look out over the sea and just try to process for a minute. Emma. I can't get over how _little_ empathy she has. How do you systematically torment your former best friend for more than a year and _still_ find new ways to hurt them? And how does none of this blowback on her? Mom helped her scraped knees too. Doesn't that count for anything? Does she just not care? Maybe I register as so little to her now she doesn't think it's wrong. Then why keep at it? Why bother to make my life in particular hell? Surely there's someone with lower self esteem who will go and off themselves after enough punishment.

I roll the problem over and over in my head, projecting and picking roses, using the pain as a reminder to keep on topic. I drift from motivations, to causes, to potential horrors, to old horrors, lost in misery. Before long I have an even dozen roses. I select one and begin playing with it, seeing how far it can flex before it breaks.

"Neat trick."

I turn towards the voice, noting that the hill is empty now. Some ripped shirtless guy with Nazi tattoos on either shoulder, greasy blond hair, and a metal wolf mask _oh shit it's Hookwolf!_

I jump to my feet, aiding myself with my shell, trying to recall the nearby streets. I'm pretty sure I'm faster than him, and if I can break line of sight maybe I can-

"Easy there Rosie," he says, smirking.

Rosie? The cutsie name shocks me out of my panic. Okay. Hookwolf is standing in front of me, and he hasn't tried to kill me yet. I take a moment to close my eyes. In. Out. Mask up. When I open them again, I stare at the Nazi, holding the bouquet of the roses defensively across my body.

"What do you want?" I ask, putting only a little contempt in my voice.

"You in the Empire," he says simply, still smiling. "Also to say thanks for killing the gook. Motherfucker was a bitch and a half to fight."

"Not interested," I respond, mind racing, trying to think of ways to hurt a writhing mass of metal. Pull him apart? Bone is weaker than metal, so I couldn't do it without making a _lot_ of bone. Pin him down? He could flow through the cracks and flay me. What about putting a bone inside of him and expanding it? Maybe, but he could just eject it and-

"Okay," he says, shrugging.

Just like that?

"What?" I ask, a note of incredulity creeping past the mask. Did Hookwolf just take 'no' for an answer?

"Yeah," he says, looking me in the eye. "If you don't want to join, forcing you's asking for a knife in the back. Better to let you figure out who you can trust on your own. You'll come around to the right thinking eventually," he says, showing some teeth in his smile, "And we'll be waiting with open arms."

"What if I'm black?" I ask, still a little off balance from the surprisingly polite Nazi.

"The fact you had to ask means you're not," he says, turning around. "When you're ready to join, walk into an Empire bar in costume, don't start shit, and ask politely. One of us'll show up." He walks down the hill, passes through the tree line, and disappears from sight.

Well then.

I drop the mask and go back to looking at the river, worldview partially shattered. I just had a civilized talk with a literal Nazi about joining their team of villains, and it went better than my attempts to ask the principal of a school to look out for bullies.

I grow another rose and snap it off. Nazi is the operative term here. Hookwolf is a racist murderer. Don't put on rose colored lenses because he asked nicely. They want my power, plain and simple. If I wasn't white, then they'd want me dead. I repeat the mantra, snapping off a rose at the end of every repetition until I internalize it.

I will not let criminals convince me they are just.

It takes almost an hour for people to return to the park. Two of them come up the hill, both in skin-tight bodysuits. One's a woman in grey and blue, the other a man in red. Assault and Battery. Assault gives me a once over and grins.

"So who left you waiting at the altar?" he asks. Battery sighs and smacks the back of his head.

"Hookwolf," I respond. Assault manages to express both shock and awe with half his face covered, while Battery simply raises an eyebrow. "He wanted me to be a Nazi. I said no," I say, answering the unspoken question.

"Good partners don't ask their partners to change their core beliefs," Assault says sagely. "Plus, his hair looks nasty as hell."

Battery sighs. "May we talk with you?" she asks, gesturing towards some empty space next to me. "We want to clear some things up about last night."

Last night. Right. Lung. Mask on.

"I'd be more than happy to answer your questions," I respond evenly. Battery has bursts of super speed and durability, while Assault absorbs and redirects kinetic energy. If I want out, all I need to do is cover him in bone and run. I could probably win a foot race with Battery, and if she takes the time to free Assault I'll be long gone. Nothing to be lost by talking.

Battery sits down to my left, with Assault laying back against the grass beside her. She takes out a small device and presses a button. A red light blinks on and she begins talking.

"This is Battery, interviewing the parahuman known as 'White Rose' about the events of the night of April 11th in Brockton Bay. White Rose, do you have anything to clarify?" It takes a moment for me to realize she's pointing the recorder at me.

"Uh, no," I respond lamely. Was there something I was supposed to say?

Battery nods and goes back to talking. "The Protectorate responded to an emergency call reporting a cape fight between Lung and an unknown in an abandoned area. When we arrived on scene, Lung was still fighting 'White Rose' and had progressed to the point where forcing him to retreat was infeasible." At what point _is_ forcing Lung to retreat feasible? "As a result, we decided to run interference so that that White Rose could flee. We were unsuccessful, and Lung caught up to the new cape." I shudder a little when I remember Lung looming over me. "At that point, Assault destroyed Lung's left leg above the knee, then White Rose stabbed Lung through the eye and filled his cranial cavity with bone, killing him. Do these events sound accurate?" she asks, turning to me expectantly.

I open mouth, then hesitate. Does this count as an admission of guilt? I have no idea if this counted as self defense. I did go out looking for a fight. Maybe that makes me at fault? Assault leans over Battery's shoulder and offers an encouraging smile.

"Relax, we're not going to try and arrest you. We just want to clear things up," he says, speaking lightly and cheerfully. "Once we have all the facts, we'll have a team of lawyers look them over and figure out if what you did was justified. If they think something needs addressing-" meaning that I have murder charge "-you'll have a day in court. If not, we let it go and inform you. All said and done, it looks a lot better if you help the process along," he finishes, retreating back to the grass.

Battery coughs politely. "Do the events, as I have presented them, seem accurate?"

If I say yes, I'm giving them a handle on me. A crime they could suddenly bring up whenever they felt necessary. Armsmaster probably has video footage already, but personal testimony isn't something to be given out lightly. If it went to trial, I could probably cast doubt on whatever he has by pointing out that he's a master Tinker and could fiddle with the footage. I can't do the same with some shitty low-tech voice recorder. I spend some time thinking about how to proceed in order to leave myself the least open to future reprisals, examining the issue from every angle. Battery eventually pauses the voice recorder, but doesn't put it away. Halfway through my thoughts something twinges and I look down. I grew a new rose.

I think about how a criminal would act in this situation. The rose makes a little more sense.

In. Out. Mask.

I nod and Battery turns on the voice recorder again. "This is Battery, resuming the interview of White Rose. Do the events previously stated seem accurate to you?"

"Yes," I respond quietly. Battery clicks off the recording device and stands up, arching her back with a series of pops. Assault rolls up to his feet and flashes me a smile.

"Well, looks like it's about time for us to head out! Also, do you have a phone or something?" he adds, casting a sideways glance at me. "You know, just in case we need to contact you."

In case they need to ask me to turn myself in. I shake my head. "I've had a bad experience with phones."

Assault shrugs. "Well, we'll probably have this figured out inside of a week. Just to be safe, see if you can be free the Saturday after next. We can meet you here to discuss things. That, or we'll drop off the news when we next see you. Anyway, ciao!" he says, walking off down the hill.

Battery watches him go, before turning to me and extending her hand. I look at it. A small white card, with a number and the Protectorate logo. I take the card.

"Call if you need help," she says simply, adding a soft smile. "Or if you want to join the Wards." She walks off after Assault, and they too disappear through the trees.

I make a chair out of bone and sit down, basking in freedom and the midday sun. That didn't go nearly as poorly as it could've. I'm still waiting to see whether or not I'm going to be charged for murder, but it could be worse. They could've had Miss Militia tranq me from a hundred meters away, or used an aerosol, or simply broken open my armor and tased me into unconsciousness. That I'm still free means they're trusting me not to flip out and do something silly. I think about school, and my odds of keeping it together. Nah, best not risk it. It feels nasty, using my power as an excuse not to go to school, but I can't afford to screw up my hero career before it even starts.

But what to do for the rest of the week?

"How much?"

"Hmm?" I say, turning my head to face the noise. An older guy, with a nice shirt and slacks, tapping his foot. Fancy watch, glasses with a little silver horse on them, and an irritated expression.

"For the flowers," he clarifies, pointing to the bouquet in my hands. I look down at them. Yeah, I have a lot now. I guess I could sell them for bus fare or something.

"Two fifty," I say, idly growing a thin cone around the stems to keep the flowers from falling out. He hands me a trio of bills, grabs the makeshift vase, and walks off down the hill. Rude. At least he overpaid. I take a look at the two hundred-dollar bills and the fifty and-

Wait what.

I hold the bills up to the light, trying to make sure that this isn't an illusion. Nope. I have two hundred and fifty dollars in cash. They don't look fake, but I haven't seen hundred dollar bills in real life before. I feel a little giddy just thinking about it.

Then I realize I'm waving around a bunch of money in a public place and feel a little silly. I quickly make a pocket in my armor, place the bills inside, and seal it tight. Revenue stream acquired. I probably won't be able to sell flowers for _two hundred and fifty dollars_ often, but even just ten bucks per bouquet would be nice. Heroing doesn't pay the bills, after all.

I lean back down in my chair, staring up at the sky thoughtfully. Now I just need a good name. White Rose Florists? Pretty generic. Plus, I don't want people to think I can only make one type of flower. Regrowth Botany? More academic than strictly necessary. Maybe cut the bone theme entirely. Go for something classy. Hmm, where do bones and roses appear together? Graveyards? How about Mourning Florists? A little morbid, but there have been worse ideas.

"How are you doing?"

Goddamn it if one more _fucking_ person interrupts my thoughts today _it will count as suicide by cape!_ I slowly turn to face the voice, keeping my movement as smooth as possible.

The voice belongs to a blond girl with freckles and green eyes, dressed in a pretty purple sundress. Not a cape. She looks a little pale. I close my eyes. Breathe. In. Out. Mask on. I open up my eyes and smile behind my mask. "I'm doing fine. How are you?" Courtesy for courtesy, now tell me what you want.

The girl grins in that reflexive way Emma would when she got nervous. "I'm doing pretty alright. Can we talk for a bit? My name's Lisa."


	7. Rigor Mortis 3

Huh. 100+ followers. There's a milestone.

* * *

"Depends on what time it is," I say. Why is this girl approaching an unknown parahuman and where is her basic survival instinct? I swear to God, lemmings have nothing on Brocktonites.

"It's about," she pulls out a phone and glances at the screen, "Twelve twenty. Actually, I haven't had lunch yet. Do you want to get something to eat?" she asks, cocking her head to the side. Forward, aren't we? She must see something in my posture because she laughs and shakes her head. "No, I'm not looking to hit on the new cape. I just want to chat." Well, free food. I then remember the cash burning a hole in my armor. Alternatively, I could spend the cash and prove that White Rose has both money to spare and a generous heart.

"Well, I could do with a meal. Any particular destination in mind?" I ask, standing up and absorbing the chair back into my armor. As long as it's not crazy expensive, I think I can foot the bill.

"How about Italian?" she asks. "It's a bit of a walk, but I know a nice little place called Lucciano's." Before I can answer she's already walking down the hill towards the entrance of the park. I shake my head and follow after her. If she's some crazy cape geek, I can just leave. If not, maybe this can help me cement a more heroic image. Plus, a casual conversation with a non-parahuman wouldn't go amiss.

I draw stares from other pedestrians but a pointed look at the people holding cameras keeps the rubbernecking to a minimum. I don't doubt that PHO is going to be crawling with photos of me by the end of the day but hopefully I won't come across as a publicity hound.

Lisa has good taste. Two stories with a small nameplate hanging from the overhead balcony that I have to weave my head around. Credit where credit is due, the the host doesn't bat an eye at the pretty blond girl in a sundress walking in with a cape escort and asking for a table. We get a seat in the open air dining space on the second floor with a nice view of a line forming at the front door as cape geeks and reporters desperately try to look like they're not following us. Lisa looks over the edge and laughs.

"Fun fact, she," Lisa points to an irritated looking older woman about halfway down the line, "is here solely for the food."

I keep my focus on the menu while trying to process that. "Could you shed a little light on why these people think approaching a new cape is a good idea?" I ask. The _rosticciana_ sounds nice but the price tag is a little concerning for a pork dish.

"Well, your first act was taking down Lung, so most people think that puts you on the side of the angels," she says bluntly, eyeing her own menu. "That, and you're walking around in broad daylight without the Protectorate coming down on you like a sack of bricks, which more or less confirms it." Well when you put it like that it _does_ make approaching a new cape seem less dangerous.

"Have you decided what you want?" she asks, changing the subject. "My treat, so order what you want."

"We split the check," I respond. "I think I'll have the penne all'arrabiata," I say, picking a weekly special that's priced reasonably. No idea what it is but it's the second cheapest thing. Lisa lifts an eyebrow at that but doesn't say anything, instead waving towards a waiter. He listens to Lisa but both of his eyes are focused on me. Rude. I return his stare and he freezes. I then turn away to look over the cityscape, dismissing him with my body language, and I hear his footsteps padding away shortly after. Lisa sighs, and I turn to look at her. She's wearing an expression that can only be described as an irritated pout.

"Now why'd you scare away our waiter?" she asks. "He was only curious."

"I don't appreciate being treated like a work of modern art," I respond. "If he wants to stare, he can at least wait until he's off shift."

"And you walking around in full costume doesn't contribute to his distraction at all" she comments dryly. I feel heat suffuse my face and snap a toe bone to keep focus. "It's fine if you want to be noticed in public," she says, shrugging her shoulders, "but you could be a little more aware of how it affects people around you."

"Duly noted," I say, closing the conversation. "Now then, why on earth did you take me here?" I ask. If good things just happened, I'd be due more than a few winning lottery tickets.

"Can't a girl just see a pretty new cape and want to say hi?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. I'm not sure how much of my scorn bleeds through my mask, but she picks up on it and lifts her hands in surrender. "I will admit, my motives are not entirely altruistic." And there's the catch. She leans forward, making eye contact. "I was actually wondering if I could ask you about which group you were going to join."

I shrug. "I currently don't want to join the Wards and I'm not sure about New Wave's recruitment policy. I'm not unmasking," I clarify, "And I'm not sure they'd be okay with that."

"You could join a villain team," she offers, leaning back in her chair. I snort. "Hear me out," she says, suddenly all business. "Most villains get caught, right? So why aren't prisons full of them?"

"Because keeping parahumans locked up is insanely difficult," I respond. "I mean, what sort of cage holds Kaiser and Hookwolf at the same time?"

"The Birdcage," she responds. "But do you ever wonder why people bother sending villains like Viktor to regular jails?"

I shrug. I've never really thought in depth about it but even Uber and Leet can break out of regular prison. Surely after the first three or four cases of a villain breaking out of Max Sec the legal system would get the message and just send people straight to the Birdcage.

"It's to keep the game going," she says, smiling, like she knows something I don't. "See, the heroes need someone to fight. Preferably, a 'villain,'" she explains, using her fingers to form air quotes, "Should be a reasonable person that doesn't permanently maim or kill anyone. That way, the public gets a show, the villain gets some cash, and everyone profits."

I stare at her smiling face, like she has the truth and is laying it out like a pearl before me. Like she, a random civilian, has uncovered the perfect way for cape conflict to be structured.

In. Out. Mask on.

"Hookwolf regularly murders people," I state. Lisa's smile starts to falter. "Part of E88's initiation ritual is killing a minority, and they have more than a _dozen_ capes," I say. The smile is gone. Good. "The ABB aren't any better. The other parahuman-run gangs regularly deal in cocaine and heroin, which probably kill more people than any cape. That sounds like a lot of permanent maiming to me," I comment lightly. Lisa frowns.

"I'm not saying that _all_ villains follow the rules-" she starts. No. You don't get to pretend like villains are good people.

"Unless you _completely ignore_ the deaths of regular people, I haven't heard of _any_ villains that follow your rules, Lisa," I interrupt, raising my voice a little. "I'm not sure if you're trying to be some sort of E88 apologist or what," a look of pain crosses her face, "But joining a villain team seems like the first step on one long slippery slope of bad ideas."

The waiter walks up with a blank expression and our food. I thank him quietly while Lisa simply nods in his direction. I look down at my plate. Penne pasta with some sort of red sauce that's too light to be marinara. I spear a few noodles on my fork and lift it up to my face before realizing I don't have a gap for eating in my mask.

Lisa looks over her tortellini and vegetable mix with a shaky smile. "So, how do you actually intend to eat that?"

On an impulse I reshape my helmet into a featureless oval and try warping my teeth to become part of my mask. Nope. But that gives me an idea.

I push some bone into my mouth, forming a thin layer of bone at the base of my gums. I form joints around my jaw muscles on the sides and slowly fracture the front of my mask, making sure that the break is an even zig zag of pointed teeth. I open and close my mouth a few times. The new outer jaw moves easily, and I use my outer "teeth" to pull the pasta off the fork. Hmm, spicy. Lisa's just staring at me and I raise an eyebrow behind my new mask.

"Have I got something on my face?" I ask.

She shakes her head, a small smile back. "Nah, it's just odd that you didn't want to retract the lower part of your mask and eat that way." Right, that probably would've been easier. I shrug and shovel more pasta into my mouth, trying to cover up my flush as something from the spice. Even though Lisa can't see my skin.

It doesn't seem to matter, and she laughs nervously before going back to her food. We eat in silence for a bit. My new "teeth" don't actually help me eat (they're outside my mouth), but they do make a quiet clicking noise with every new bite. Something to work on in the future.

About halfway through the food, the silence moves from polite to awkward. Should I apologize? For what? It's not like I didn't believe what I said. Maybe apologize for the framing? No, I think the word choice was pretty reasonable with the exception of the E88 apologist comment.

Something unsettling crawls up my spine as a pair of people approach me. Did I use my power to browbeat someone into silence? Have I already fucked up?

"Hey."

This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. Exactly the pit I was trying to get out of. Exactly what Emma or Sophia or Madison would do if they got powers.

"Hey!"

God, why did I think this was good idea? Why did I think that Taylor Hebert, the possible-psycho murderer, could be a hero?

"Ugh, Vicky, aura."

Just like that the oppressive feeling of fear is gone. I let out a breath and notice the girl shaking my shoulders. Freckles and frizzy brown hair that makes me thankful for my own black locks, with a tired and knowing expression. On her chest is an ankh, black on a white background.

Amy Dallon. Isidis. The girl who saved my life. I look her in the eyes, and she meets mine unflinchingly.

"Vicky's scared of you, and it reflects in her aura," she says, motioning over her shoulder. I crane my neck and see a white-robed blonde with a figure to kill for sheepishly rubbing one arm. Justitia, A.K.A. Victoria Dallon. Alexandria Lite, with an aura that manipulates the emotions of those around her. At least partially involuntarily, apparently.

"Sorry," Justitia says apologetically. "I didn't mean to mess with your head there, it's just, uh..." she trails off, looking at my mouth.

"Your mask is creepy as hell right now," Isidis says bluntly, pulling a pair of chairs away from a nearby table. "Mind if we sit down?" she asks before collapsing into one anyway. I look to Justitia, who is pointedly waiting for my permission. I motion to the other chair and she sits down gracefully, nodding in thanks. Lisa looks peeved at the new arrivals but holds her tongue. After a moment of silence I decide to ask the first question.

"So how did you find me?" I ask. "Seems awfully convenient for New Wave to show up out of the blue." That, and I have no idea how to react to seeing a pair of A-listers out looking for me.

"How many capes are walking around the city in bone armor?" Isidis asks, holding up her phone and showing a social media feed filled with pictures of me walking down the street. Looks like my attempts to ward off the rubberneckers only worked a little. "Anyway, Vicky's got a whole speech prepared. She can take over from here," she finishes, stealing my glass of water and quickly swallowing half of it before eying my plate of noodles. "Say, would you mind if I..."

I push the plate over to her, already shifting my focus to Justitia. She wriggles a little bit in her seat, pointedly looking at some point on my forehead. I shift my mask back into it's normal helm, dropping the false jaw into my hand.

"Better?" I ask, leaning onto the table and steepling my hands. Lisa snorts.

"You realize you're literally holding a mutated human jaw bone in your hand," she snarks. I idly reshape it into a rose, the bone resistant but still malleable. Vicky takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. I recognize the motions, and focus my attention her.

"New Wave would like to point out that they are an organization that complies with all laws and regulations. As such, we cannot condone extra legal killing," she says, voice stilted and jerky, as if trying to remember the answers to questions on a test. I feel my stomach drop a bit. She takes a breath and continues. "However, we would also like to make you aware that New Wave is willing to offer limited legal assistance, free of cost, in the interest of maintaining fair and just treatment of underage parahumans by the PRT." She places a business card in front of me, finally meeting my gaze.

"Agh, how can you eat this!?" The staring contest is broken as we both turn to look at Isidis, who is chugging water as Lisa tries to hold in laughter. Eventually, she finishes the glass and slams it down. "So hot!" she hisses, grabbing Lisa's water. After quaffing it and dragging the back of her sleeve across her mouth, she turns to me.

"Listen, we're not mourning Lung," Isidis clarifies. "But being independent is hard enough when you have _one_ cape with excessive force problems on a team." Justitia deflates a little at that, and Isidis shoots her an apologetic look before moving on. "We're waiting to see if the Protectorate is going to cause a fuss over this. If they do, we'll help you so far as we think you deserve it. If they don't, maybe we can schedule some patrols together. Does that seem fair to you?" she asks.

I hold my tongue and think. Honestly? It doesn't seem fair that I need to be worried about a manslaughter charge after my first night of patrolling, and it feels like New Wave is just playing the publicity game.

I grind a few bones and sigh. On the other hand, it does seem reasonable for a group of almost-vigilantes who tread a fine line to keep a respectful distance from the new cape that may or may not be a criminal.

"It makes sense," I say, picking up the card and placing in a compartment next to Battery's. In. Out. Mask. Isidis nods and extends a hand for me to shake. I take it.

"Anyway, if you have some free time this week, I work at Brockton General in the ER from five to six in the afternoons," she says, giving me a firm shake and letting go. "Maybe I can use your bones as transplant tissue. It'd make you some money and let me increase my rates," she adds, smiling.

She and Justitia don't stick around. They fly off, Isidis in bridal carry, and Lisa checks her phone before bidding her own goodby, citing work. She leaves some money at the table (more than her half, given the number of twenties on the pile), and suddenly I'm alone.

It doesn't feel quite so nice now.

I finish the rest of the pasta (which isn't _that_ hot) and call over the waiter.

"Cheque please," I say, mindful of my mask. He shakes his head, face carefully showing no emotion and looking over my head.

"It's on the house," he responds, hands hidden behind his back. I look up at him and see a mask worthy of my own.

Why am I getting a free meal? People give gifts for reasons, even if they're altruistic ones. So what's the reason here? One is that I drew in more customers than I scared away and now they want me to keep coming. Another is that the person running this place appreciates me killing Lung and wants to say thanks.

A third is that they want to keep the murder cape happy.

I motion towards Lisa's money, discreetly adding a fifty to the pile. Way too much but I don't have any change. "The girl I came here with left her half of the bill," I say. The waiter takes it as permission and collects the bills, not spending a moment more in my company. I'll take that as my cue to leave.

I leave a bone rose on the host's podium, trying to ignore the stares of the other restaurant goers, and start walking back to the alley where I left my clothes, thinking about recruitment, justice, and other people.


	8. Rigor Mortis 4

The trip home is a quiet affair. I get back around five, well before Dad. Lacking anything better to do I start cooking dinner. I'm still a little full from the pasta but meat loaf takes time to cook.

While I'm cutting up onions I take stock of my situation. I've been approached by both of the major powers in Brockton Bay, along with a minor one and some random person preaching the virtues of a life of villainy. None of them made a good offer but none looked hostile either. I wonder how long that will last with the Nazis if ( _when_ I chide myself) I start going after the skinheads. I don't think New Wave or the Protectorate want to bring me in (yet) but the whole killing-in-self-defense thing has definitely burnt bridges.

I toss the onions into a bowl and start adding other ingredients, mashing them together with my hands. I haven't talked to Parian yet so that's something to plan for tomorrow. On the other hand, I have no idea how to contact her. She's probably got some sort of online presence so my first stop is the library. Once I'm finished checking out her schedule I'll take a second look at the NEPEA-5 and the plain speak annotations to see what I can actually do. That and a medical textbook to see if leaving a bunch of bones lying around is going to accidentally re-start the Black Plague. Given that Battery didn't bring it up I'm probably fine but you never know.

After putting the mash into a pan and throwing it into the oven, I set a timer and go upstairs to Dad's room. He keeps Mom's old things in his closet including a certain book that's oddly appropriate.

The trunk has a thin layer of dust on it, thick enough to remind me about just how long it's been since Dad and I have talked about Mom. I gently brush it clean and lift the lid, drinking in the sight of neatly folded dresses, old pens in fancy cases, and books. Perfect. I lift them slowly, reading every title. A Clockwork Orange. To Kill a Mockingbird. Candide. I can almost hear her voice from when she used to read me these at bedtime. I eventually light upon one of the few pieces of nonfiction in the stack. A thick brick of a book titled The Flower Dictionary, resting just below Don Quixote. I lift it free, opening it to a random page and taking a look at the illustration. Heather, for luck. Helenium, for tears. Exactly what I needed.

I replace Don Quixote, taking the dictionary's place above As I Lay Dying, and put the rest of the books back. I head back down to the kitchen, open up the dictionary to page one, and start expanding my repertoire.

The meatloaf is being kept warm in the oven and I've made it almost halfway through the 'I's when I hear the creak of the front porch. I hurriedly drag the bone back into my arm and close the book, setting it to the side. The door rattles a little as Dad opens it, revealing a conflicted expression on his face. He gives me a perfunctory nod before striding over to the table, sitting down and staring intently at his clasped hands. He's thinking then. I pull the meatloaf out and cut some generous slices up for us. He smiles, transparent and awkward as glass, when I hand him a slice. A bad day at work then. I return it.

For a while there's only the sound of silverware against ceramic. I keep trying to think of a way to broach the subject of skipping school but every starter seems like a terrible idea. Dad must catch on at some point because he puts down his silverware and looks me in the eye. "Is there something you want to talk about?" he asks.

Crap. "Yeah," I say, keeping my voice even. I wonder if I could form a lattice around my heart that could keep it from pounding so fast? I feel a flush rising and grind some bones together. Calm, calm. In. Out. Mask on. "I wasn't feeling well in school today, so I was thinking about skipping tomorrow." Really? I feel sick? _That_ was the best I could come up with?

Dad seems to buy it though. His face immediately moves from interest to concern. "Do you need to see a doctor?" he asks. "I can drive you in the morning if-"

"No, it's not that bad," I interrupt, shaking my head and waving a hand. I'm not sure how many different ways there are for a doctor to determine if a person is a parahuman and I don't want to find out. "I was just thinking that maybe I should take a few days off. Don't want to get anyone sick," I add with a shaky smile. Now that I think about it, I wouldn't mind Emma _coming down with a case of osteoporosis-_

I grind my toe bones together. Not in the house.

"Well, if you're sure," he says. After a few more bites, he sighs. "I'm just worried about you missing school," he confesses.

"I'll be fine, Dad," I assure him, forcing a smile. It hurts lying to him. On the other hand, telling him his daughter is a killer and is playing hooky to try and join a group of capes is also probably not a good option. Hopefully this hurts less.

We finish the meal in silence. After a perfunctory good night we head to our rooms and attend to our nightly rituals. Dad spends some time with a picture of Mom, remembering, and I twist bone into webs in the moonlight.

Wake up. Run. Return to a quiet breakfast with Dad. Bus to the Library. Nothing of note happens, and I'm glad for it. That can wait until I have a plan.

I hop onto a computer and login as a guest on PHO. Parian, Parian, Parian, wherefore art thou Parian? Apparently working as a living advertisement for some toy store for the next three weeks, somewhere on the Boardwalk. I pull up NEPEA-5 in a separate tab to check if it's legal. Yes, so long as you aren't a Master that can affect humans. Interesting, and something to look into. After taking some more time to consult the legalities of working as a cape I log off of the computer and head to the Boardwalk.

Brockton Bay is famous for two things: one, an insane amount of criminal capes per capita. Two, tourism. Whether you're a veteran traveler looking for new food and new sights or an overworked parent looking for something to get the kids to sit down for a minute, there's something for you, and it's probably on the Boardwalk.

After making sure no enforcers are looking at me, I duck into an alleyway, strip, and armor up. When I emerge the crowds parts, and something in me is pleased. If only I could _pull out a bone pike or seven at school, force them to bow to-_

In. Out. Mask on. No murder thoughts near people who don't deserve them. I think about the statement for a moment, and revise it. No murder thoughts near people. Much better.

Soon enough I come upon the store. Given the lack of animated plushies, Parian probably hasn't arrived yet. Odd, but her profile stated that she tends to work around lunchtime. I head into a cafe, order some tea, and settle in for a wait.

About halfway through my third cup, a green and black giraffe about the size of two men steps out of the storefront, receiving applause and laughter from passerbys. It's followed by a monkey of some sort, no smaller, who has a blond woman in a white full-face mask riding on it's shoulder. There she is.

I settle my bill, wait more than a few minutes for the cashier to figure out whether or not she can break a hundred, and eventually leave about ten bucks short of what I'm owed. Parian's still making her animals dance and I watch on from a respectful distance. It would be rude to interrupt her while she's working.

I get more than a few stares but after seeing me studiously ignore anyone asking for an autograph most people don't bother me. Parian's routine goes on as normal, toys and clothes are bought, and all is well with the world.

Eventually, someone comes out of the store and makes a motion towards their wrist. Parian nods and waves goodbye to the crowd, with many 'aww's being drawn from the younger members of her audience. I take that as my cue and move towards her. The crowd parts, creating a two-foot space between their soft flesh and my gently clicking bone plates. I follow Parian into the shop, praying that she'll listen.

"Excuse me?" I say. Parian glances over her shoulder, then freezes. Fuck. She must have heard about Lung and drawn the wrong conclusion. I raise my hands in surrender. In. Out. Mask on. Don't be threatening.

"I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions," I state, staying a comfortable distance away. "Over lunch," I offer. "My treat." I'm burning through the cash from the rich guy faster than I want, but you've got to spend money to make money. That, and I need to come across as non-threatening as possible.

She stares at me. I can't make out her face but it's probably got something close to apprehension on it.

"I'm not interested in joining any sort of team-" she starts, speaking slowly. I quickly shake my head. Parian's explicitly stated her neutrality multiple times and infringing on it wouldn't look good. That, and it'd be wrong.

"No, nothing like that," I state. "I was actually wondering if you could give me some advice on how to monetize my power," I explain. "Who to talk to, what sort of laws I should be aware of, that sort of thing."

She looks at me, and I get an idea about what it must be like to look at my own mask. Just a blank expanse of white with two little black marks where the eyes should be. I wonder if she's as creeped out as I am?

"Lunch," she agrees, and behind my mask I wince at the tone. It sounds like she's worried about being shanked if she refuses.

"You really don't have to-" I begin, but this time she cuts me off.

"No no, it's fine," she says, moving towards the door, "Perfectly fine," she finishes, walking carefully around me. I follow with a sick feeling in my gut. What did I do wrong?

She takes us to a little cafe and gets two paninis with tomato, avocado, and swiss cheese. Not something I'd normally enjoy, but it's edible. Parian has a word with a waiter and we get taken to a secluded room on the second floor.

She sits down at a small table, unwrapping the sandwich with slightly shaking fingers. After fiddling with the side of her mask the lower half falls off and reveals dark skin. I sit down across from her, more than a little surprised. Somehow she picks up on it and sighs. I feel myself begin to flush. Damn

"Yeah, no one expects it," she says, a tired note seeping into her voice, and this time I see the frown at the edges of her mouth. "Anyway, lunch. Please, just ask your questions." She takes a bite out of her sandwich.

In. Out. I form the lower half of my mask into a jaw and have a conservative taste of mine. Not bad but it could use some meat. I swallow and decide to ask the most pressing question.

"How can I stay neutral?" I ask.

She laughs, a note of incredulity in her voice. After a moment, she composes herself and stares at the table top. " _I_ ," she stresses her own pronoun, "am not powerful enough to scare people, and I make sure not to help or hurt anyone." Fuck. I feel something writhe in my stomach. Neither of those statements apply to me. "You," she points at me with her sandwich, "Already have the enmity of one gang, and the rest of them will try to spin that into an invitation to one of theirs." She shakes her head. "That ship has sailed," she mutters, taking another mouthful.

I lean back into my chair, feeling a sense of weariness. Well, it was worth a question. "What about resources?" I ask. "Like, if I wanted to sell something made from my bones?" Maybe I can get rich enough to sue anyone who attacks me into the next time zone.

She pulls out a pen and scribbles a number down on a napkin. "This is my lawyer. He's got a whole firm that specializes in helping Rogue capes. Call between four and seven from a pay phone," she continues, pushing the napkin across. "Be respectful, be professional, and it shouldn't be hard." I tuck it away into my armor and eat some more mediocre sandwich. There's one productive thing done today. Something to look into after helping Isidis out.

"Is there any law I should be careful about? Not just NEPEA-5," I clarify. "Little local laws that don't show up on basic web searches." I've done some research but there's only so much legalese a person can look through before they fall asleep.

Parian shakes her head. "Brockton Bay is pretty cape friendly. Kinda has to be, with Isidis." I nod. Limits on parahuman abilities would hit the corpse-grafter first, and no politician wants to be known as the one who stopped one of the world's few healers from working.

"Thanks," I say. I extend a hand and she waves it away, a serious look on the exposed part of her face. I try not to feel hurt.

"You are really scary," she says, and the fear in her voice is palpable. "Please please _please_ don't try to talk to me again. I work very hard to stay free of fighting, and even this much might put me in the firing line." There's no guile on her exposed face. Just desperation mixed with fear. I try to contextualize, to imagine how I would react if a gang banger showed up at school and asked me how to get a job.

Well then.

"I won't contact you again," I say, nodding mechanically. We finish our food in silence. Parian re-attaches the bottom half of her mask and walks away. I leave shortly after, dropping a few bills by the cash register and processing her words.

I need a walk. To clear my head. Then I need something to do so I don't go insane. I check the clock. One in the afternoon. I need to walk for four hours, and then I need to be at the hospital to meet Isidis and see what good I can do.


	9. Rigor Mortis 5

I wander the Boardwalk in a daze, hanging onto just enough presence of mind to step around people when they don't move out of my way, processing Parian's speech.

I don't think I can blame her for trying to stay out of cape fights. I don't know who else she's looking out for or what responsibilities she has. I don't know what costs she's paid for her freedom, her image. It's fair for her to be scared of losing it. The logic of her rejection doesn't make me feel any less like a pariah though.

I keep walking, eyes down, and start trying to make a flower. Nothing from the book, nothing natural. Something that I can push this feeling of hollowness into. I let my power go to work, twining and flexing like it does when Emma gets in a good dig, or Madison's pranks really land, or Sophia sneers half an inch from my face and all I want to do _is lose myself in a whirlwind of blades, spikes, hooks-_

I grow a rose in my right hand and snap it off, luxuriating in the focus it brings. Past wrongs are not a good line of thought. My left hand is still holding the project, which is a mass of thorned vines shaped vaguely like a spider lily, still growing, woven together to form an elaborate vase. Convenient.

I wonder...

I keep pushing my confusion and emptiness into the spider-lily thing while growing roses in my right hand. Interesting. I wonder how many different projects I can juggle? I keep creating, drawing further into myself and angling my walk towards the hospital.

By the time I'm happy with my new creation I've filled it with more than a dozen roses and have arrived at Brockton General. The clock says it's not quite three, far too early. Chances are Isidis isn't even out of school yet.

I stand by the main entrance awkwardly holding the strange sculpture of bone and weighing my options. I could go home but by the time I got there I'd just have to bus back here again. No point to that. School's a misery, and even if it wasn't I'm supposed to be sick. I don't exactly have any friends so I can't call anyone and ask to hang out. Patrolling wouldn't mean much in this part of town and I don't know enough about the law to do it properly. Another thing to look into at the library.

On the other hand, selling flowers at a hospital is probably legal...

I step through the revolving doors, nodding politely at the people sitting in chairs reading or watching the clock. I get fewer looks than I expect. Probably because most people here have more important things to worry about. I continue to the receptionist's desk, place the vase on it, and wait for her to get off the phone. A few muttered words later and she puts down the receiver with a huff, balling in her eyes before turning to me.

"How can I help you..." she trails off, a mix of surprise and caution in her voice.

"White Rose," I state. It feels silly saying my cape name to someone. Like I'm playing dressup, and everyone is only humoring me. "I was wondering if you could tell me where I should go if I wanted to sell some flowers." I motion to the vase. I don't think this is how capes are supposed to market their wares but it's not like there are a ton of guides for parahumans who don't want to fight.

"There's a gift shop down the hallway on the right," she says, slowly and carefully. I nod in appreciation and leave the vase on the desk. Free advertising, or a gift to an overworked and underpaid employee.

The gift shop is a sad affair. Filled with fresh flowers, stuffed animals, cards and candies, it's positively bursting with commercial cheeriness. The cashier has a semi-genuine grin, and the shelves have enough space on them to indicate some amount of use. That doesn't change the fact that you can still smell powerful disinfectant under all the pollen, or sweep away the crumpled Get Well Soon! cards on the ground by the spinning rack.

This is the place where people buy gifts for the injured. There aren't a lot of good ways to spin that, no matter how good your marketing team is.

I walk up to the cashier, who physically shrinks as her gaze goes up to my eyes. Damn. Not the impression I want to generate here. Girl's just doing her job.

"Could I talk to the person in charge of supplying the stuff on the shelves..." I glance at her name tag, "Jenny?" I try to keep my voice positive. Just a six foot plus cape looking to make a living, kinda like you. Nothing to be afraid of here.

"Um, sure," she says, eyes never leaving my lenses as she reaches out with one hand, scrambling for a receiver. After a few attempts she grabs it and turns away from me, punching in some numbers with shaking fingers. Well, she's not calling 911 so I'll count this as a win.

I spend some time examining the vases. They're in a range of colors, the whole spectrum of the rainbow with irregular, organic shapes. I grow a rose and place it inside one of them, examine it for a moment, and pull it back out, shaking my head in disappointment. It looks _wrong_ somehow, like a minimalist landscape on the wall of family living room. Neither the flower nor the vase are bad on their own but they sure as hell don't mix. I kill some time, adjusting vases and trying out different flowers, looking for a combination that works.

"White Rose?" a masculine voice asks, bored and steady. I turn away from an arrangement of sage and roses and come face to face with an grizzled man no younger than fifty, with leathery brown skin, grey streaks peppering black hair, and startling blue eyes. He sticks out a hand.

"Marco Borkowski, inventory management specialist. I heard you wanted to talk to me?" He has a slight twinge to his voice, like he's spent some time rolling his r's and hasn't completely shaken the habit. I like it.

I take his hand and shake it twice, firm and fair. "Yeah, I can grow flowers and was wondering if I could replace some of your suppliers," I joke, motioning to the now-filled vases behind me. Marco looks over my shoulder and shrugs.

"How much do you want to charge us?" he asks, eyes neutral as he scans the array of bone in glass. I move out of the way and he moves forward, touching and shaking the flowers gently.

"No idea," I respond honestly. "I figure I'd provide a few for cheap and test the market and figure it out from there." There isn't really a way to track the price of parahuman biomass. I mean, Tinkers can sell their stuff for Scion knows how much but the number of capes outside the Toybox that turn their powers towards economic pursuits is not high. As a result it's a wild, wild west, with no one knowing when NEPEA-5 and Co. will step in.

Marco nods along and pulls out a cluster of Forget-Me-Nots, holding them up to the light and watching how a little filters through the thin petals. "What sort of limits do you have?" he asks. "What can't you make?"

I lean against a shelf of chocolates and cross my arms. An interesting way of phrasing the question.

"Well, I can only do bone," I began, speaking slowly. "That means that things like Honeysuckle are tricky. Too thin, and apt to break if you jiggle them too much. Besides that, I'm pretty sure I don't have any hard limits." If it wasn't for the spike of pain every time I broke a bone, I'd say I won the jackpot of powers. That, and the fact that people like the Triumvirate and Dragon exist. All power, no downside.

He replaces the flower and turns back to me. "Bring in your lawyer," he says. "We can't sell these," he adds, motioning to the filled vases. "We don't have any idea if there's anything off about your powers, and we don't want to be liable. On the other hand, if you get checked out, we'd be more than willing to make a deal."

I nod. The same concerns I had. "Are things normally this hard for parahumans?" I ask. The concerns aren't unreasonable, but at this rate I'll be able to join the Protectorate instead of becoming a florist.

"Do you know how much paperwork legal had to fill out for Isidis?" he responds, raising an eyebrow. "Armsmaster's sent a few upgrades our way, and it's not unusual for those to take _months_ to get through a review board. You're lucky we can get you onboard with _just_ a third party evaluation and a contract or seven." He cracks a smile. "Besides, the profit margin for parahuman stuff is high enough that it's usually worth it."

We exchange a few more pleasantries, but he has work and I need to take the flowers to a biohazard bin. He gives me his card (I'm building quite the collection) and directions to the nearest dumpster. I thank him and gather the flowers in a box of bone before waving a final goodbye and heading off to the back of the building.

Once I'm done tossing the flowers into the trash (and warping them beyond recognition to discourage dumpster diving next to used needles) I head back into the lobby and check the time. Almost four. Ugh. I look around for something, anything to do. My eye stops on a shelf, piled high with beat-up hardcovers and well-worn paperbacks. I pick one up at random and check the title. The Old Man and the Sea. Well, it's been a while. I settle into a chair and take some time to remember Santiago.

A short time after the Marlin has finally given up the ghost, someone clears their throat in front of me. I look up and see Isidis in surgical scrubs, with an ankh over her heart and a raised eyebrow.

"Ready to experiment?" she asks. I nod. She jerks her head towards a hallway labeled 'intensive care.'

"Let's get going then."

* * *

Turns out, my power does work well with hers. But not perfectly.

I need to break the bone off for it to count as dead flesh, so I either have to do my best impression of a wood-chipper and shatter the bone out as fast as I make it, or I have to have pre-made pieces.

That's not the biggest issue, though. Turns out, Isidis can't turn my bones into flesh. They're great for fixing broken bones and marrow transfusions, but I can't make organs or blood for her. I give her some skin grafts, which work well enough, but that's as far as I can go.

She tells me not to worry about it. That this much is going to save lives, that no one expected to find a true panacea thanks to just two capes. I take the compliment and shatter a few of my toe bones to keep the mask on. When that doesn't push down the disappointment completely, I break a rib. Better.

At the end of her shift Isidis drags us both into a bathroom.

"Strip and shower," she says, pulling off the scrubs and tossing them into a waiting bin. I turn away and do my best to keep my flush down while reeling a little from shock. She wants me to what now!? "Shedding your armor isn't going to do enough," she clarifies, grabbing a bar of soap and heading off to a stall. "You actually need to get disinfected. Use the antibacterial soap," she finishes, voice partially drowned out by the pounding of water against ceramic.

Ah. Right. That's what she means.

I grab a towel and a bar of soap before walking into the shower stall and turn on the hot water. There's no problem, I tell myself. You're just disinfecting. It still takes a try or three to pull the bones back in all the way, and longer to stop flinching at the stall door every other second.

It's not that I expect Isidis to come in and peek, or anyone else for that matter. It's just that old habits are a bitch to break.

Eventually I get clean, armor up again, and go back to the hallway. Isidis is waiting in street clothes, loose jeans and a Bad Canary shirt, a minimalistic yellow profile on a black background.

"Thanks for helping me out today," she says, smiling gently. "If you want to make this a regular thing, we can talk about paying you for it."

"I'm looking into a lawyer already," I respond. "And I'm glad to help, Isidis."

"Amy," she says, shaking her head. "Out of costume, I'm Amy. Makes life easier." She walks towards the exit, and after a moment I follow her.

"Amy," I say, trying the name on and finding it not entirely unpleasant. "Do you have any suggestions-"

"For being a new cape?" she interrupts. "No idea. No one in New Wave is good example of how an average parahuman develops. You want to talk to someone useful? Try a Ward," she finishes bluntly, pushing through the door and holding it for me. I nod my head in thanks and move past her, pushing down a feeling of hurt. She probably didn't mean to be harsh. The response is curt, but honest.

"It was a pleasure working with you," I say, extending a hand, smoothing down some of the sharper edges on my gauntlet. Isi -Amy I remind myself- takes it and pulls me in for a one-armed hug. She barely comes up to my shoulder.

"Don't get hurt," she says, pushing out of the hug and walking towards the bus stop, pulling out a book and sitting down on a bench while a pair of patients smoke by the sign.

All in all, not the worst interaction I've had today. I walk back towards the Boardwalk, trying to remember if there's a payphone on the way I can use to contact Parian's lawyer.


	10. Rigor Mortis 6

By the time I get home, the sun is down and most of the lights in the neighborhood are off. Dad's not back yet but the answering machine has a message explaining he just had a new contract come in. I can hear the enthusiasm through the static, and I try to feel happy for him. I really do.

Dinner is cold meatloaf.

Once I'm filled up enough to stave off hunger, I head up stairs and start jotting down a shorthand version of the half-hour long conversation I had with Parian's lawyer (apparently named John Doe?). Terse, to-the-point, but polite, just like Parian said he would be. We've planned lunch for some time next week but in the meantime he's given me some things to think about as well as a few major rules for capes who don't want to get into trouble.

One is don't patrol. Looking for fights puts you firmly on one side or the other, and that means you're fair game if you're in costume. He's pretty sure that I can get away with killing Lung so long as I don't antagonize anyone further.

Another is that I need to go to the PRT and register as a Rogue. He also told me in no uncertain terms that a lawyer should be present and do most of the talking for me. There are a few different ways to get legally conscripted and plenty of everyday euphemisms that can end in mandatory power testing.

He also told me that getting the signatures from a person with a PhD in Parahuman Studies and a separate Doctor of Biology is all I need to assure people of the safety of my products. A quick stop by Brockton U should get me those, and then I get to fill out four different forms. Turns out taxes are a thing, and while Joe could subcontract that work out he recommends that I just do it myself. He gave a short rant about "filthy leeches" and "ruining the good name of the law," before assuring me that it wasn't hard and I could get it done in a day or two, tops.

At any rate it looks like I'm going to be printing out a _lot_ of forms tomorrow. That, and busing down to the College. Good thing Dad won't be worried about me missing school for a while.

It kind of sucks that my parent's inattention is a good thing.

* * *

I fall asleep before Dad gets back from work, and when I get back from my morning run he's gone again, leaving a get-well note and some money on the table. I swallow down the loneliness and pick up my bag, throwing in a few black pens for the paperwork. Maybe I can make pens out of bone? Nah, too porous. The casings, maybe.

It takes half an hour to get to the library, which doesn't open until ten. I kill a few minutes outside paging through a copy of Lord of the Flies before an old, kindly-looking man opens up the doors and motions for me to get in. I give him a shaky smile and he flashes a grin back.

"No sense in you freezing out there," he says despite the fact that it's barely forty. "Long as you don't need to check anything out and keep it down, we won't have a problem."

I get a few funny looks from the other librarians as I boot up the computer next to the ancient printers but the old man whispers to them quietly and they turn back to the business of opening up. I roll my shoulders and begin the arduous process of picking apart the legislation surrounding parahumans and business.

Most of cape law is focused around adults, which makes a lot of sense because it is mostly adults who bother getting lawyers. On the other hand, triggers skew towards the lower end of the age bracket, and over the years there have been a number of cases where people who haven't reached majority have wanted to use their powers to get out of a bad situation. Last I heard Skylighter is working for the US military ensuring clear weather for the local airbase and Eighth Night is pursuing an extremely satisfying career of managing all the pests in the city of New York, and both of them were under eighteen when they struck out on their own.

I don't want to emancipate myself though, so there's a limit on what I can do. That, and the IRS requires you to file income tax both in your civilian and cape persona if you don't want to reveal your identity. Alternatively, you can open up a bank account as a cape (provided you have committed no criminal acts) and simply spend money only in costume. I shoot off an email from a throwaway account to John Doe with some basic information I hope won't unmask me and get to work on the stuff I _can_ do without a bank account. Which is a lot of box checking and writing.

By twelve I've filled out and understood four of the seven documents I need to set up a sole proprietorship with the NEPEA-5 exemptions and restrictions. Surprisingly painless, apart from all the googling. One of the remaining pages is a sign-off from experts saying that my power is safe for commercial use and the other two require a meeting with a lawyer, a representative of the local PRT, and a representative from city hall. That's for next week. I wave goodbye to the librarians with a smile on my face. A few steps closer to _doing_ something.

* * *

The bus ride to the college isn't long. Most of the students are outside eating lunch or relaxing on the field before classes. Perfect. I duck into a building, find a bathroom, and change into White Rose. The backpack is tricky for a moment but a quick bone shell should be more than enough to disguise it. I'll have to make a folder or pack of some sort in the future. I walk out of the bathroom and down the corridor, preparing myself for the public. In. Out. Mask on. Push.

I have a few vague memories of going to work with Mom, and the thing that struck me the most was how tall everyone was. I was ten then so of course people were taller, but it was more than that. The students were all filled with energy, making the colors seem a little brighter around them, motions a little more energetic. The boisterous, noisy people were gregarious, not irritating. The introverts tapping away at keyboards and scribbling away at journals were thoughtful and contemplative, not antisocial. Most of the kids dwarfed Dad anyway but their raw enthusiasm increased their size to epic proportions.

Now?

It's a mass of people I can barely consider the scope of once I pay attention to it. Yet I'm not scared of them anymore.

A few students stop and look at me, pulling out phones and whispering to one another. I snap a toe bone and force down some vestigial nervousness before walking into the crowd, trusting them to part before me. There's chatter but I fuse my ear bones together to deaden the sound. Eyes on the prize.

The Parahuman Studies wing is between the Political Science and Sociology departments and decidedly better funded. Makes sense given the cape demographics of Brockton Bay. It does mean I'll have to walk back across campus to find the hard sciences and get the signature from a biologist but this will work for now.

A quick look at the directory gives me an office number and a name. Dr. Fedorov, 208. I wander with purpose, doing my best not to look lost. No one's in the halls so the show isn't strictly necessary but it feels wrong to be aimless with a mask on. Eventually I find the stairs and get to the second floor, and then it's a matter of hoping they're in for lunch. I repair my ears and knock three times before the door is opened.

I'm not sure what I expected. A tweed jacket, maybe. A long grey beard, spectacles, and slightly absent eyes, staring off into the distance, concerned with esoteric subjects and impractical knowledge. Certainly not a twenty-something woman who would look more at home on the set of an action flick, with messy blond hair, a gymnast's build, and piercing eyes that glare up to meet mine, her head barely coming up to my chin.

"What do you want?" she asks, apparently unfazed by the appearance of a cape at her door.

I swallow down my nervousness and fold my hands behind my back. "I'd like to get a professional review of my power so that I might sell some things made with it," I say, unflinching. Maybe it takes breaking a toe bone to keep eye contact after I realize I can make out a bulge under her shoulder and then remember that Brockton U allows concealed carry on its grounds.

"Let's talk then," she says, breaking eye contact and heading back into the room. I follow, noting the scattered papers and books piled haphazardly with riveting titles such as Correlations between Triggers and Contextual Stressors and Master Effects. She motions to a chair with sloppily stapled papers on it. "Sit down."

I take the seat with all the grace I can muster and sling my bag down by my feet, pulling out the paper. She catches sight of it and holds up a hand, shaking her head.

"I need to know something about your powers and about you before I sign anything," she says. I nod and leave the paper on her desk. In. Out. Her face doesn't indicate any sort of dislike. Just interest and caution, like a zoo keeper with a new lion.

"Where should I start?" I ask.

* * *

By the time Dr. Fedorov (Nancy to people asking her for favors, apparently) is done interrogating me we've come to an agreement. She signs off on the form and in return I'll drop in on her seminar to answer some non-intrusive questions as well as stop in at a lab to provide an example of my power in use. Apparently getting a parahuman into the lab is nearly impossible. Given the amount of money a good college has access to I cannot imagine why that is a problem.

She sends me off with a handshake and a smile, and I give her a violet. While I didn't explicitly mind the conversation, it felt odd being in her office. Like being a fly under a magnifying glass or a sample in a petri dish. I check the time on a wall clock and figure I'll have have to wait for the afternoon labs to finish up before I can get the biologist's signature. Looks like I'll be reading by a classroom for a bit.

Walking across campus still attracts attention, but less this time, and I don't bother to re-break my ears. None of the students approach me. Well, almost none. A blond with a heart-shaped face detaches from a group of students and starts walking next to me.

"Hey there," she says. I raise an eyebrow behind my mask. "You're the cape working with Amy, right?" she asks, and the pieces connect in my head. Blond, college age, knows Isidis in her civilian life. A member of New Wave. Laserdream, I think?

"You have me at a disadvantage," I say, keeping my tone cordial and not breaking stride. No sense in antagonizing Isidis's family, and I don't think she means to delay me.

"Right," she says, lightly rapping her head. "Crystal Pelham. Amy said you're White Rose, right?"

"That is my name," I comment. The lab building is coming up. "If I wanted to get approval for something, who do you think I should go to?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Depends on what for," she says, going along with the shift in conversation. "If you're looking for an extension, Professor Mina's probably the way to go. She loves helping people out. On the other hand, Rebelski is more useful if you're pursuing a research problem. He has all sorts of connections." She casts a glance at me. "Do you have a specific need or question? I might be able to help."

I open my mouth to answer but close it when I hear a noise. Something between a whine and a bass drop from a club. I try to hone in on it, and I sense Crystal doing the same beside me. Then the sound warbles and the sound of shattering glass erupts in the distance, with alarms following close behind. There's a boom a few seconds later, and smoke begins to come up in the distance. Then more.

I start running towards the chaos and Crys- _Laserdream_ flies past me, face determined and solemn. A look that can't have come easily. Sometimes I'm glad my mask is so concealing. It makes appearing heroic easier.

I sprint after her, flexing my power in anticipation and hoping it will be enough.


	11. Rigor Mortis Interlude

When presented with change, there are two possible reactions.

One can fight against it. Whether that means building walls to guard you from it, using prepared contingencies to respond instantly to it, or literally beating the agent of change to death so that the status quo may be restored is a matter of semantics. At the end of the day, it is looking at the world and bending it to your will, spitting in the eye of the inevitable.

Or, one can work with the change. Switch sides at a critical moment, abandon a stable position to gather more power, or simply change goals to turn a setback into an unexpected windfall. When plans are derailed beyond all hope of salvation, when victory is doomed to be bitter sweet, a little reordering is often necessary.

With power and anonymity, fighting back is an expedient and effective way to ensure the dice fall in your favor. When there are multiple players or stealth is paramount...

Then the latter approach becomes attractive.

"Lung is dead?" I wonder out loud, expression concealed by cloth and an empty document on the screen in front of me in one timeline while I peck away at a keyboard in another while wearing an entirely reasonable grin. After all, a parahuman gang leader is dead, and that surely means safer streets. Given his responsibilities, Thomas Calvert is more than justified in his happiness. Coil, on the other hand, is in a more complicated position.

Lung would have had to be removed at some point. Not a figure of chaos per say but having a dragon capable of ashing a city stomping around is too much of a risk for long term stability. Previous plans relied on forcing Piggot to call in outside help or a sufficiently powerful explosive in a sufficiently discreet location. Far from foolproof, but eventually effective.

But now was not that point. He was supposed to kill off most of the E88 first, or a few Protectorate heroes. Then he would escape capture a few more times, remove some more problems, and eventually pick a fight with someone out of his weight class.

I begin typing up plans as Coil while I finish up for the day as Calvert. Changes need to be made, but this...

This could be an opportunity.

* * *

"We're going to be _heroes_?" Trickster asks, the confusion in his voice palpable even through the phone.

"That is correct," I reply smoothly. "Events have transpired, and I find myself needing to change the terms of our contract. Will it be a problem?" I ask. Refusing is not quite an option but the charade must be maintained.

"No, not at all," he says. "Just surprised, is all. I'll need to discuss this with my team, but I don't see it being an issue." Given the relatively low body count of your companions, I would be surprised if it were.

"I will see you shortly," I say before hanging up. Managing their fifth member will be a trial, but the four useful members of their little troupe will make for fine lieutenants. That, and they don't have many verifiable violent crimes attributed to them, making them the perfect candidates for a redemption story.

In the Calvert timeline I savor a slice of chocolate cake, a costless reward for a job well done. In the Coil timeline I pull out another phone and hit the third number on the speed dial.

Three rings later, Tattletale picks up. "What?" she asks.

"For the next week, use your power to find ABB and E88 store houses and weapon depots. You will not be going on any jobs," I add, then hang up. Let her puzzle out the meaning of that statement. The truth will be stranger than fiction.

I collapse the Calvert timeline and split them again.

In one, I de-mask and head home, ready for nine consecutive hours of sleep as Thomas Calvert. In the other I start examining Medhall offices and mark the ones that don't have air-gapped databases. I then sort them by potential value and risk of E88 response.

The plan has changed, but not necessarily for the worse.

* * *

Dying is not an experience one can ever get used to.

"What the _fuck_?" I snarl at the computer in front of me as the Calvert timeline suddenly ends halfway through its commute. I split, call Mister Pitter to the room, and shoot him six times in the belly.

Collapse.

I split again, this time more productively. In one, I leave through a secret exit and start driving towards a safe house while in the other I dial up Tattletale.

"Tattletale, what's happening?" I ask, maintaining an even voice. Pointless against a Thinker of her caliber but the charade must go on.

"Bakuda's gone crazy," she says, a note of terror in her voice. If it's enough to scare her, then I must not be the only one at risk. "She's making a power play, thinks that this will convince people to take the ABB seriously, thinks that it will validate her, is currently planning on-"

"Stop," I order her, and savor the audible *click* of her teeth coming together. It is _good_ to be in charge of _something_. "Save your power. This is not an unusual event. _If_ ," I stress, "Bakuda becomes a problem, I will call a meeting with the other villains in town, and we will plan on stopping Bakuda with them. Only _then_ must you worry." While losing a timeline to a random bomb is inconvenient and irritating in the _extreme_ , it is just a timeline. I have weathered worse. I hang up on her and call a trio of soldiers to my office.

I point to the rightmost one. "Go to an Empire bar and tell our informants to increase the frequency of information dumps." The more often the enemy knows something they shouldn't, the more often the ranks are swept for spies. A necessary risk when wars break out. She leaves, and I point to the second. "You, go to the Palanquin and tell Faultline I am interested in hiring her on retainer." This may become big enough to justify purchasing her services. An unlikely but possible event, and having her on retainer prevents someone else from employing her. He leaves, and I turn to the third. "You, check in to see if the Merchants are responding." Poor and weak people who steal from others who are weak and poor, but capes are capes. This may be the event that finally prods them into doing something so tremendously moronic that _something_ disruptive happens.

I haven't maintained my stable position in this city by neglecting a Tinker who can make tanks from scrap, a sentient mass of disposable armor, and a man who can create railguns at will.

The third soldier nods as and moves to obey.

I force myself to remember the two ways to react to change. Fight back, or work with. With that in mind I pull up the dossiers of the Empire's roster and begin to think.

How many casualties can I get them to take in this gang war?


	12. Burial 1

The first bomb site we get to reeks of the sea.

The tourists always take a minute to close their eyes, flare their nostrils, and take in the scent of dead fish but when the aroma is with you day in and day out it fades into the background.

At least, not unless it's _really_ strong.

The street is basically untouched. Nothing is broken, or shattered, or trapped in some weird Shaker effect. It just smells like salt. A few grains dance along the sidewalk, swishing and scratching quietly.

"What happened here?" Laserdream wonders aloud for the both of us, floating to the door of a cafe and pushing it open. I follow her, the scent of salt growing stronger as we travel along the short wooden hallway. She pauses after pressing through another door with "Coffee-nation Grounds" stenciled in black on frosted glass. What stopped her? I walk up next to her and look.

Inside, a line of clothes lying half covered in salt lead to an old-timey cash register with an apron draped across it. Salt dusts the countertop. Display cases containing small white plates and now-inaccurate punny name cards sit filled with mounds of salt. A stroller holds a little onesie, salt flowing from the hand holes and neck, with a green summer dress lying carelessly on a chair next to it.

I count the number of large piles. Five in the line, six at tables. One or two behind the counter, some number in the kitchen. Plus whichever restaurants were also in the blast zone. Plus whoever was blown away in the street by the wind.

Bad math puts the body count at something like twenty people. Probably more.

Beside me Laserdream pulls out her phone and calls someone, speaking in a shaky, hushed tone. I break a toe. Then a rib. Then several ribs, trying to push down the urge to _go down to the docks, drag every vaguely-Asian person into the street and shred their limbs until they scream out the secrets of the ABB and lead me to-_

"Um, White Rose?"

I freeze my chain of thought. "Yes?" I reply. There will be time for murder later.

Wait, what?

"...Nevermind," she finishes, going back to her phone and speaking quietly again. Something about patrol schedules and the Protectorate. I take another look at the room, empty but for us and salt. Something churns within me and I move out the door, make my way to the nearest dumpster, and puke my guts out. The smell and taste of bile cut through the aroma of half-decayed garbage wafting from the rancid trash. I notice that I can't smell the salt through the cloying musk.

The thought of the onesie filled with salt brings another wave of vomit to my lips.

Just... why? Money? Dead people don't pay. Revenge? Who is worthy of this level of collateral and frequents a fucking coffee shop? There has to be a reason behind it. Something I'm not seeing. It'll be... not better, when I figure out the motivation. But maybe figuring out how it all fits together will eventually let me keep a meal down.

By the time I'm done voiding my stomach Laserdream is off the phone, the PRT have established a cordon up and down the street, and the only thing coming up out of my body is a slimy, clear fluid. An officer is standing silently near the end of the alleyway, gun held across their chest. Right. Crime scene. First to it. They probably have a lot of questions.

I snap a toe bone to sharpen my mind and move towards them. My knees go weak, and I stagger for a moment. The guard moves towards me, a hand leaving their weapon to offer me support.

No.

I seize control of the bone around my legs and steady myself while bringing one arm up to deflect the assistance.

"I'll be fine," I say, and snap a bone to keep the quiver out of my voice. "Now then, do you need me for anything?" I ask, channeling my inner Jane Eyre.

"Just your account of what you saw, ma'am," an oddly high and feminine voice answers, unused hand falling back to her weapon. "If you could talk to Officer Caspen, he'd like to ask you some questions."

I nod wordlessly and let myself be led to Caspen. His helmet is off, and the grey at his temples stands out against his coal black skin. We go through some simple questions and after a few minutes he dismisses me. Which would be a relief, but I have no idea where to go. Eventually one of the PRT soldiers taps me on the shoulder and asks me to leave.

So I move. Slowly, then faster and faster as I fall deeper and deeper into my power, trying to bury the thought of salt beneath as many layers of bone as I can.

* * *

I don't remember how I came across the second bomb site. I do remember being told by some first responders about how I have to double check every piece of debris and that shifting them can sometimes do more harm than good. I let them order me around, making lattice pillars between the ground and collapsed walls then expanding them. When there's not enough room for that I dig, the careful eyes of a grizzled EMT warning me when he sees the rubble shaking.

We pull three corpses out of the building and six people who aren't much better.

I don't throw up this time. I'm not sure I like that.

Once they're pretty sure no one else is left in the ruin they tell me the location of another bomb site. They ask me to help. Like I wouldn't.

I leave a marigold for every person still breathing and get moving. Two limbs aren't fast enough, so I try four. Then six. Then I stop counting and focus on moving to the next disaster.

* * *

Credit where credit is due, the firefighter trying (and failing) to put out some black flames that are flickering far too slowly to be natural doesn't bat an eye when a multi-limbed bone thing collapses into a six-foot knight-errant in front of her. She has me scrape the Tinkertech fallout into a box and then sends me off to the next location. A conventional bomb, but bigger and hotter.

A few minutes later I'm elbow deep in dirt and ash trying to get to a sobbing voice behind half a dozen charred beams. Then someone tells me to get out of the way, Vista's here. I retreat and watch in awe as a gap the size of a flute balloons into something I could walk through with clearance on every side. A soot-stained child is pulled out by a weeping mother, and the two get escorted to an ambulance by a police officer speaking in soothing tones.

I don't remember much of what I read about Vista, the youngest and longest serving Ward in Protectorate ENE. A Shaker with the ability to warp space, limited by the number of people in it. An abstract description that covers most of the details.

That doesn't tell the whole story though. Vista is very much a girl, a full two heads shorter than me in my armor. And yet here she is, white costume going grey with dirt, a grim set to her lips as she expands minuscule gaps into paths to freedom.

Looking at her surrounded by destruction is like looking at a blue rose in a mass grave. Fundamentally _wrong_ on half a dozen levels and yet there probably isn't a better place for her to be.

Then someone grabs my elbow and points me at a a smaller lump of collapsed building and there's no more time for literature.

Later, when the wounded are in ambulances, the dead are covered in white sheets, and I'm staring at nothing, Vista comes by and sits down next to me. We both just stay there, listening to the subdued chatter of the professionals.

"It's not usually like this," she comments idly. I turn to look at her, then adjust my gaze downwards. "They try to keep the kids away from the fighting," she explains, leaning her head back and looking at the sky, a note of bitterness in her voice, "But when things get really bad, they ask us for help."

"Anyway," she says, her voice shifting towards something closer to cheer, "This is the part where I pitch the Wards. Decent pay, good training, better back-up, and a whole host of other quality-of-life benefits. Armsmaster said that he had already tried selling it to you though, and not to press too hard. So, yeah. Just remember it's an option," she finishes, standing back up and heading towards a PRT van.

"Hey," I call out, getting up and following her. She turns, and I form a sunflower in my palm. Just the blossom. I snap it off and toss it up, the arc long and high. Some of the sky warps, and the flower falls directly into her waiting palm. I sketch a smile on my mask and get back to moving, this time towards the hospital.

* * *

"Three inches, finger width, two" Isidis says, holding out a hand. I dutifully grow and snap off the requested pieces, and she quickly presses them to the stump of an arm. The bones looks soft for a bit as they warp and fuse to the rest of the shattered limb, and once they're in place she dips one hand into a bowl of shredded flesh that reads "arms" and waves me away with the other.

"I'll be busy here for a bit, get to work on some of the compound fractures. I'll call you when I need you." The pile of flesh in her hand is already fusing to the bone and reforming into something usable. I nod and step out of the operating theatre.

The emergency room is packed. Not as bad as it was when I first got here but the less injured are still standing around waiting for treatment. Nurses rush to and fro carrying bandages and antiseptic to people coming in with open cuts while those who are waiting for more intensive treatment try to keep their moaning to a minimum. A doctor with designer bags under her eyes catches sight of me and strides over, stepping between a pair of gurneys carrying amputees towards the operating room.

"We've pulled the people with broken bones aside," she shouts over the crowd, jerking her head towards a different operating room. "Are you up for more?"

The room for people with fractures is maybe a five minute walk away, and it's less full than the last few times I've been here today, maybe half a dozen people. It's a strange feeling, setting bone _right_ for once. Not an unpleasant one, but weird.

I have Isidis to thank for this development. A question about the smoothness of the fragments I was giving her turned into a question about my limitations. This led to getting a pair of surgeons to cut up the arm of a person with a compound fracture. I fixed his radius and ulna and then suddenly had new responsibilities besides feeding Isidis bone. I'm still slower at fixing breaks than Isidis, but she can't be in two places at once.

Part way through mending some ribs I realize that this could be a job. The pay would be decent, I'd be having a positive effect on the world, and I have friends already doing it. It might be a pretty sweet deal.

Then I imagine being here, day in and day out, doing the same thing over and over again. I imagine long days of low-interest, high-difficulty labor. I imagine fucking up and having to explain why a patient might need to stay in the ICU for longer because of me. I imagine doing it multiple times, until it becomes routine.

It sounds horrible.

How can Isidis stand it?

* * *

By the time casualties stop coming in it's well past seven. Someone brought food for the two of us and now we're unwinding in the hospital cafeteria while snarfing down cheap burgers. I resolve to demand better food next time. They can take it out of my paycheck if they have to.

"So, are you going to be a regular?" Amy asks in between bites of greasy meat and pint-sized vegetables. "I'd like to know if I should get used to having a 3-D printer on hand in emergencies."

I think about the number of times today I had to snap a rib to keep from vomiting. Then I balance it against the number of people who have to deal with stitches instead of casts and the number of people Isidis was able to speed through because she had me at her side. The battle between the collective good and an individual's right to determine their own fate isn't something I think anyone's fully figured out yet, and trying to wrestle with it myself is a bitter thing. I don't like that getting more options has reduced my freedom to choose. That it could put me back under other people's control.

"I have yet to decide," I offer, and Amy nods, taking another bite of her burger and shrugging.

"You've been in the game for, what, four days? It'd be weird for you to have an answer already. Not unheard of, which is why I'm asking," she says around a mouthful of food, "But if you don't want the pressure, then don't make the commitment. Anyway, things seem to have died down, so you can probably go home."

"Will you?" I ask. It seems like a poor decision for the healer to leave a hospital in a crisis.

"Around nine or ten," she answers. Some of my concern must show in the way I tilt my head because she barks out a brief laugh before responding. "I can replace organs in minutes and create counter-plagues with a touch, but everything else? The doctors here get by just fine without me." She nods towards a group of medical staff sitting at another table, still in uniform. "I supplement, not replace them. I can get some sleep during the off-peak hours and in return they get to work fewer 24-hour shifts."

I nod and push away the rest of the burger half-finished. "I'll take my leave then," I say, standing and cracking my neck. A neat trick, and one that helps relieve muscle pain. Not sure how, but it's nice.

"Want a ride home?" Amy asks. I turn to look at the superhero without a mask, who's parent lost a teammate because of their decision to play fast and loose with her identity. Amy reads the thought in my silence and shakes her head. "Not home. But the general direction. Vicky's pretty fast, if you don't mind heights."

I do some mental math while looking at the clock. Dad usually gets home around nine-ish, so if I sprint I _might_ be able to make it before his truck pulls in.

Or I could try flying.

"When can she get here?" I ask.


	13. Burial 2

I've changed my mind. The main drawback to my power isn't the pain. It's the lack of flying.

I have to shrink down a little so that Justitia doesn't have problems holding me in a Nelson, and it's awkward as hell asking if I can use bone to bind my legs to hers so I don't have to suffer a princess carry or try an awkward piggyback at several hundred feet in the air.

Worth it ten times over.

The air is cold and clean, the potential discomfort pushed away by the warm-as-blood bones hugging my skin. The sky is nearly starless this close to the city but a glance downward shows a sea of glowing color. From this high up the graffiti, trash, drug dealers, pimps, and gangbangers are inconsequential, meaninglessly small specks.

Instead there's just a city of light.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Justitia says, a note of awe in her tone. "I mean, I forget about it since I'm usually only a few feet above the rooftops, but it's nice to get up here every once in a while and just..." she trails off.

"Observe?" I offer back quietly, barely paying attention.

"Yeah," she says. We stay up there for a few minutes, drifting with the breeze. It's a combination of quiet and peaceful I haven't felt since I came back from summer camp two years ago.

And just like that the moment is lost.

I tap Justitia's wrist. She arrests our movement in the sky and clears her throat.

"So..." she begins, and I fell a note of fear shoot through me, one that doesn't make any sense. I snap a toe bone and remind myself about her aura. It must be a pain always wondering whether people like you for you or if they like you because it's a side effect of your powers. "Where should I drop you off?" she asks, slowly descending. "Like, any neighborhood or cross street?"

I give her an address about a ten minutes away from my house, which means less than five by bone-sprint. She drops down, there's an awkward minute of me trying to untangle my growths without breaking them, and then we're just a pair of capes in the middle of a lower-middle class neighborhood.

There's a brief silence as we size one another up. On one side, a green-robed cheerleader with a classic powerset. On the other, a figure straight out of Don Quixote's nightmares with an ability that can be most kindly described as unusual.

"Well, good night," she eventually says, drifting back into the air. I nod before turning towards home. I wonder if she'll be waiting at the hospital to take Amy back home after work? Then I start moving again, focusing on my power.

The trip home is uneventful. There's a close call with a cat but the bombing seems to have scared most people into seclusion. The back door groans a little as I ease it open, and I hold my breath in anticipation. After a few moments of silence, I let it out and walk in. The armor pulls back under my skin and I quickly shrug my clothes back on. The signed papers are still in the bag and I take a moment to mentally relax at that. My signature is on enough of these that anybody else picking up one probably kills my secret identity.

Right. The bag. Or is it a box now? Either way, suddenly getting a knapsack made of bone isn't exactly something that can be hand waved away if Dad spots it. A little time spent focusing on the shell and it separates from the backpack, waiting for disposal. I place it beneath a workbench in the basement and leave it to go unnoticed. Hopefully. The papers go into a manilla envelope, and I resolve to get a biologist's signature tomorrow. After that I head to bed and realize just how long the day has been when sleep takes me seconds after I've pulled myself beneath the sheets.

* * *

When I wake up, it's to the sounds of frying bacon and my alarm. I slap the snooze button and try to retreat back under the covers but Morpheus's veil has been well and truly pierced. After luxuriating in the warm blankets for a few more minutes I drag myself out of bed and shut off the alarm properly. I guess yesterday must have taken more out of me than I thought.

Yesterday.

I go through my morning routine, trying to figure out where to go from here. Opening a shop when the city is exploding is _probably_ not a good plan. I can't even get the rest of the paperwork done because the college will be closed due to the bombing.

As I finish brushing my teeth I create a list of things that are possible for me to do. Have to stay positive. I can try selling my flowers on the boardwalk for cash. It's _technically_ allowed but there's a cap at fifty bucks, which might make people mad if I up the price once I have a brick and mortar store. Still, money is money. Alternatively, I can go to the hospital and help out Isidis. Volunteer work isn't the worst use of a week off. If all else fails I can just spend the day catching up on my reading list at the library.

Content with my options, I pull on some workout clothes and go downstairs to begin my run. At which point I remember the smell of bacon. Which implies a cook.

Dad turns away from the pan in the kitchen and smiles at me. It's one filled with some happiness but also a little tiredness. That, and worry.

"Hey Taylor. Do you have a minute before you go out running?" he asks. I consider saying no and explaining that I need to set good habits for myself, that taking even a day off could ruin my routine.

"Sure," I respond instead, leaning against the wall. Dad nods and turns back to the pan, poking at the bacon. There's a silence, short and heavy, before he releases a breath.

"You say you're sick, but then you muster up the energy to go on runs and into town," he says, and I feel my gut clench. "I'm not going to make a big deal out of it," he adds, still not looking at me. The clenched feeling doesn't go away. "I do need you to stay at home though."

"What?" It leaks out, pure surprise. Stay at home?

"Taylor, there's a cape running around _blowing up city blocks._ " The last bit comes out hard and angry as he spins around to look at me. There's passion in his eyes, the kind that comes out once in a blue moon when he has to defend jobs and worker benefits from being cut by large corporations. "Two of the guys were working on an apartment complex next to a building that got hit. Do you know what they saw?" he asks, the anger fading. Now all that's left is grief.

I shake my head, memories of a onesie springing unbidden into my mind. I feel myself go pale.

"A black hole, Taylor," he says quietly. "I don't want my only daughter walking around the city when a cape who can create _black holes_ at will is on the loose. Please," he says, and the pain in his face cuts me. "Please be safe."

I reach forward and give him an awkward hug. We're both too gangly, all elbows and limbs, but we try.

"I won't do anything stupid," I promise. It's a factual statement. No amount of regular gangbangers can hurt me and I can always run away from cape fights.

"Are you going out today, Taylor?" he asks, looking me in the eye.

I grind my ribs together. "No," I lie. Isidis could use the help at the hospital, and I still need to fill out the rest of the forms and contact my lawyer to see how the bombings change things.

Dad would do the same in my shoes.

"Thank you Taylor," he says, smiling with relief, and we sit down for breakfast.

There's a bad feeling in my gut, and I can't finish much. Dad blames it on my "sickness" and I agree with him.

I head out for my morning run. The knot doesn't go away.

* * *

That's the routine for the next few days. Wake up, tell creative truths to Dad about my plans for the day, go to the hospital to volunteer. This time though, I'm being paid fifty dollars an hour. Turns out there's a clause for paying Rogue capes to work for you during hazard situations. It's a little more than your average ER nurse but this is only until the bombings die down. Then I'm back to volunteering.

I'm too shocked at suddenly making _five hundred dollars a day_ to complain much. I get that this is unusual and a more long-term thing would be arranged under different pricing plans but it's nice to suddenly have money.

I even managed to get the rest of the paperwork done. I asked Isidis if she could sign it. Instead, she passed the request on to Crystal, who took a sample of my bone and the appropriate paperwork to one of her professors at his home. He signed off with the caveat that I provide a bouquet for his wedding. I sent him back a dozen roses and the deal was done.

Why do people complain about paperwork all the time?

During a calm hour I log into my email and check my inbox. John Doe has sent a reply declaring that he would be available for a meeting in Brockton Bay next week on Thursday afternoon between four and eight. When I send back an email informing him that Brockton Bay is currently in the process of being destroyed by a self-replicating suicide bomber, he sends back a two-page reply that can be summed up as 'literally not even the fifth most dangerous place I have worked on a deal.' We make plans for an early dinner at a hotel downtown but move them back a week to the twenty eighth in the interest of potentially averting disaster.

I memorize the date and address before being dragged into a room with a trio of vehicular assault victims and getting to work.

* * *

I knew that cape fights were bad, but it takes seeing a man turned half to glass to understand exactly what that means.

"Pull out the pool!" Isidis yells, her voice hard and commanding. I follow behind her as Triumph is wheeled in on a stretcher. Everything below about mid stomach is glass, transparent and fragile. His costume is long gone, only a domino mask preserving anything close to modesty.

"The pool?" I ask, breaking a toe bone with every step. In. Out. _Focus_.

We enter an operating theatre and the smell of copper fills the air.

"Oh." I say.

A pool, maybe six feet wide in every direction, is in the middle of the room. Inside of it is a soup of dark red flesh and blood.

"Normally, I have time to slowly apply the flesh and rebuild people from the inside out," Isidis says, kneeling by the edge of the tub. A pair of nurses pull out a too-clean surgical saw and press it to the boundary of glass and flesh. "Normally, I'm not doing full body reconstruction," she continues. "Cover your ears."

I break my eardrums, but I still catch the starting squelch of flesh tearing open. Then the torso (Triumph, I remind myself. He's not dead yet) gets lowered into the pool and Isidis plunges her arms in after it, elbow deep. Her mouth starts moving and I quickly fix my eardrums.

"-keep putting bone meal into the pool, okay? This is going to take a lot of focus, so I'm not going to talk anymore," she finishes. I belatedly lift my arm and start doing my best wood chipper impression. And then I nearly black out from doing so.

It's a different kind of agony, the constant rippling and shattering, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from hissing in pain. It took a lot of fucking work to get used to breaking my bones (ablative armor isn't a lot of use if breaking it leaves you breathless) but this...

I keep forgetting how much my power _hurts_.

About halfway through reconstructing Triumph's thighs Isidis looks up at me. "You doing alright there?"

I nod back, not trusting my voice to remain stoic.

"He's out of the danger zone, so if you want to take a break, now's a good time." I promptly stop spitting bone meal into the soup and disguise my sag from exhaustion as a roll of the shoulders. "Speaking of time," she takes a glance at the clock, "Now's a pretty good hour for lunch. You have any preferences?" she asks, looking intently at me.

"How about Luciano's?" I answer without a tremble in my breath. Her stare turns to confusion. "The place we met for the first time," I explain. Now that I have a little cash I can probably get something nicer than spicy noodles.

"The first place we met was on the third floor at about three in the morning," Isidis comments drily, and I try to push down the rush of embarrassment. "Sounds good anyway," she says. "Mind if Vicky joins us?"

I shrug. I'm still not sure how much I like the emotion-manipulating Alexandria-lite but she's yet to do anything _wrong_. Maybe now's a good time to fix that bridge.

Once Triumph's got his legs back and we've both cleaned up it's off to lunch. The line is nonexistent (probably because of the the bombings) and we get the same seats as last time. Victoria drops out of the sky in casual wear, her smile going from pleasant to nervous as her gaze tracks from Amy to me. Still skittish then, but I'm not getting any sudden spikes of fear so at least her aura is under control.

"So, how were things today?" she asks, looking over the menu. I glance at Amy, mentally asking about how much to share. She picks up on it and motions subtly towards herself. Looks like she's taking the questions. Fine with me. I turn to the menu. Hmm, a Florentine steak? Yes please.

Amy gives Victoria a safe-for-work summary of the day while I flag down a waiter. Victoria decides on a Margarita pizza to split with her sister, and we all decide on water for drinks.

"How's the shop coming along?" Vicky asks out of the blue. I blink, stunned. Where did she hear about that? I look at Amy, who is pointedly staring into the street, away from the conversation.

Clever girl...

"It's coming along," I say. "Right now I need to talk to some city officials with a lawyer in order to confirm that I won't inadvertently destroy the local economy."

Vicky nods. "Seems reasonable. Have you thought up a name for your shop?" she continues.

"That has been... more difficult," I answer.

As the conversations goes on, I feel myself relaxing, sinking into an easy back and forth, with Amy interjecting with the occasional dry joke. I'm not sure how much of it is Vicky's social skills and how much is the fact that this is the first real social connection outside of a work setting I've had since...

Wow. I haven't had a friend for two years.

Seriously, _fuck you_ Emma.

A little unnatural admiration flows through me, prompting a look up. "Hey, you okay?" Vicky asks, pure concern on her face. I snap a toe bone.

"Aura," I respond and she tamps it down, looking a little guilty, but the concern is still there. A more natural feeling of sadness springs up. "I'm fine," I clarify. "Just remembered something unpleasant."

Vicky looks like she wants to press it but the waiter arrives with three plates on his arm. "Your food," he says, placing the meals in front of us. A blessing upon your house Mr Watkins. I look up to thank him and notice the fear in his eyes. It's not directed at us. Over my shoulder. I turn.

A goblin crouches on the railing next to us. Black bodysuit, criss-crossed with black belts bearing blades, bombs and guns. The lone spot of color is a green mask with two red stripes standing out like bloodstains on a white sheet. A new-looking harness is hooked up over the gear, wires connecting blocks of what looks like C4 but is almost certainly something far more dangerous.

Oni Lee. Lung's lieutenant. Ex-lieutenant.

One of his hands reaches out and drops three things into my glass.

Grenade pins.


	14. Burial 3

One pillar of bone to push away the suicide bomber. Hard and fast as I can, with spikes to keep him on it. One pillar to push away the waiter, flat and firm, not as fast. Don't want to hurt him. One to push away Amy. I vaguely notice Victoria moving to get between her and Oni Lee. Good, she can take a hit.

Also, as much armor as I can create, as thick as I can make it.

Boom. The world goes white and I feel my ear drums shatter. Fuck. A thing to remember next time. If there is a next time.

Also, pain. Not as bad as when Lung burned me raw but still bad enough that I almost want to snap a toe bone to put it in perspective before I remember what's going on.

Move. Have to move. I push my body away from the ledge, not even halfway motivated by my muscles. Too slow. Power needs to take over. I fall towards the street and push out long, thin branches of bone. They flex, snap, and grow, repeated fast enough that I'm only aware of it as a rapid _pop-pop-pop_ of pain and negative acceleration.

Ground floor. Good time to-

Boom. This time behind me. I feel steel make its way through a bone plate and scrape my flesh.

Pain.

I push off and start moving. Maybe not a great idea. Lee's probably got a higher Mover rating and trying to race a teleporter is a bad joke. I duck into an alleyway. Break line of sight. That'll work. Send a spike of bone behind me then branch from it, fill the entrance with sharp, spiny death. That'll delay him for-

Boom. Pain in front of me. A reflex I didn't know I had saves one of my eyes from shrapnel. The other goes dark. Agony, pure and simple. Worse than Lung's fire. Alleyway means fewer escape options, a more focused explosion.

Up then.

I move from the alleyway out into the city streets then pillar my way towards the rooftops. Halfway up something heavy attaches itself to my back and there's a loud scraping sound. I project out spikes. The heavy thing disappears with a whoosh and I taste ash on my tongue. I'm on the first rooftop. Where to go?

Boom. I'm falling from the roof but this time my plates held. Can't think, don't have the time. Twist in mid air, bones shatter to keep me from pancaking, back to running. Longer legs, more speed, have to get away-

Boom. This one too soon after the last for me to react. Another unfamiliar spike of fire in my stomach. I stop trying to escape and push _out_.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Too many to keep track of so I don't.

When the last echo finally fades away, I'm barely there. I have a hazy feeling of pain on one side and push more bone out. There's more pain, more shattering, but it gets more and more distant. Then there's a weird feeling, like my leg falling asleep, but I keep pushing out and it too goes away.

My lungs are aching. Air. I need air. Too much to retract. Tunnel. I pull myself forward, shaping and reshaping and _forcing_ the less-bone part of my body out of the massive construct. Keep. Moving. My vision is narrowing but my eyes are wide open.

No.

Sunlight. Air. In. Out. Mask on but open, teeth ready to _rend and tear and turn the meat of my enemies into hash._

"You want a _fight_?" I scream, blood pounding through my ears and I'm more bone than flesh and it all feels _right_. Like this is how things are _supposed_ to be. "Then come on out and _try again!_ "

No one.

Silence.

I spit, bone moving seamlessly in an imitation of lips. "Coward," I utter. Then the wounds catch up to me. Abdomen wounds. Those can go bad really easily. And I still can't see out of my left eye. Isidis could fix-

Amy.

* * *

By the time I get back to the restaurant the PRT is on the scene setting up a cordon. She's not there. Hospital then. As I'm stretching my limbs and working up speed someone calls after me. Probably something to the effect of 'stay here and answer our questions.'

They can wait.

Each step on my stilts jolts my abdomen. Can't have that. I grow bone in the wounds. Probably not a long-term solution but it will hold for a bit. When I nearly step on a car for the fifth time I move to the rooftops and try to avoid doing things that require depth perception. Can't show the missing eye. They'll want to put me under surveillance until Isidis can grow me a new one. I grow a rose over the center of the pain. There. Fixed.

I make an unsteady landing outside the main entrance of the ER and take a moment to center myself. In. Out. Mask on. I push through the doors. I need to find a receptionist.

I haven't taken three steps before a nurse is beside me, pulling me towards the trauma ward. "We heard you were fighting with Oni Lee," she begins. "Staff with pre-signed NDAs are waiting in room-"

I shake her off. "I am currently _fine_ ," I explain. "Where's Isidis?" It comes out more angry and pained than I want it to but the nurse doesn't seem to care.

"She's fixing herself up in a Lazarus Pit," she says patiently. "Now can you _please_ listen to the trained medical professional and let us take care of you?" The last part is tense, and I have to break a toe bone to keep myself from snapping back. She's probably overworked, I remind myself. In. Out. Pull back the thorns.

I let myself be led to a nearby room where a woman in surgical scrubs is waiting by a bed. There are three laminated pieces of paper on a table next to her. She spends a minute explaining exactly what the laminated sheets mean, asks for and receives my verbal consent, and convinces me to pull my armor back in.

It's... strange, being in the mask and not the armor. The surgeon is quick, examining and bandaging the puncture wounds on my abdomen with a detached professionalism. No organs were hit. Goody. The area where my eye used to be is a bigger problem, and she stuffs it with cotton. Before she can wrap it properly I grow a bone shell around the padding, which is apparently good enough. She sticks an otoscope in my right ear, confirms that the eardrum is shot, and asks how I was able to walk normally. I shrug. She jots down a note in spidery handwriting and tells me I can armor up again. I nod in acknowledgement, already pushing out more bone, and she moves off to the next little disaster.

Now that I'm alone, the rush is well and truly gone. My insides ache, and the lack of an eye is slowly sinking in. I lean back onto the bed and close my remaining orb.

Just a bit of rest.

* * *

"Rise and shine," a familiar voice says with an accompanying series of claps. I push aside my gossamer-light dreams and look towards the noise. Amy, Isidis now that she's in costume, is standing at my bedside looking none the worse for wear.

I slowly move up to sitting on the side of the bed before turning to look at her.

"Didn't you get hit by a grenade?" I ask.

She laughs, beckoning me out the door. I follow.

"I can animate and graft dead flesh at will. That includes onto myself," Isidis clarifies, heading towards the now-familiar operating room. "Throw me into a large enough pit of dead bodies and I'll pull back from just about anything. Makes staying in shape pretty easy too," she adds, lifting her arm and flexing as she pushes open the door and motions for me to go in. I mentally raise an eyebrow at the size of her bicep as I pass. Maybe a tad excessive. Then again, she does have to wrestle people down so she can work her magic...

I wonder if she does tune-ups for all of New Wave? Or would that be a gross misuse of resources?

"Are you okay?" I ask, sitting down on the edge of the operating table and trying to pitch the question so the implications are clear. Isidis rolls her eyes.

"This is not the first time I've been hurt, Rose," she states, pulling a trio of small containers out labeled 'eyes,' 'superficial damage,' and 'inner ear.' "It sucks, and when I get home I'm probably going to collapse into a tub of cookie dough ice cream," she continues, popping off the lid of the eye bucket and turning to face me. "But that's Future Amy's problem. Now strip so I can rub dead people on you."

A laugh escapes me. A small one. I pull back the shell on my eye, let Isidis pull out the cotton and have the unique experience of feeling my eye grow back. It's an odd sort of pain, like burning in reverse. Once that's done she dabs away the excess jelly with a damp cloth before pushing me back down.

"I need to see your stomach," she says, sealing the eye bucket and grabbing the 'superficial damage' one. I duly reshape the bone plating to reveal my abdomen. The bandages come off, the meat goes in, and the pain comes back. A few moments later and the pain stops. "Sit up so I can get your ears."

I level myself up and marvel at my vision. Crap.

"I have a prescription," I say. Isidis nods while pushing some meat paste into my ear. It feels like something _alive_ is squirming it's way into my ear and I'm glad that my shell stifles all but the most major shivers because _ugh_.

"We've got some fake lenses," she says. "Ask a receptionist for some oculataxcin."

"What's that?" Doesn't sound like anything you can get at the drugstore.

"Nothing," she answers. "The person manning the desk will give you a pack of common prescription glasses with easy-replace lenses. They don't know what's in it," she adds, "Just that whenever a cape asks for something, give them the corresponding box."

"Clever." Or competent, at least. It's good to see people are taking cape identities seriously. I'm not sure how much use it would be against a powerful Thinker but there probably aren't that many of those outside of the Protectorate. I can only imagine how many headaches a day trader with the right powerset could cause.

"I mean, I _could_ tear out your eye and balance things out," she says jokingly, "But most people don't go for that."

I don't dismiss the idea so quickly. I mean, I'll have to switch to contacts if I ever want to hero _seriously_ simply because glasses are such a hazard in a fight. On the other hand, contacts are just covering up the symptom of a larger problem and are a pain in the ass to hang onto.

"Oh my god you're actually considering it," Isidis says. " _No_ , I am not going to tear your eye out! Jesus!" The look on her face is exasperation personified, and she waves an aggressively dismissive hand at me. "Shoo, I have other patients that need something more important than LASIK eye surgery!"

I leave the room a little miffed. She bathes in dead people to heal her wounds but replacing malfunctioning organs is going too far? She has some odd hang ups.

A pair of semi-familiar faces await me at the entrance to the ER, one in red and one in silver and blue. Assault and Battery. They look... less than pleased.

"So then, how's my favorite osteokinetic doing?" Assault asks, a smile that looks maybe half genuine on his face. "Certainly not being blown up multiple times in public by a crazy suicide bomber?"

"He instigated it." I haven't done anything besides protect myself. They know this. Why are they actually here?

"We wanted to discuss the specifics of what happened," Battery interrupts, stepping forward. It would probably be more intimidating if I didn't tower over her. "Location, how the fight proceeded, who's responsible for the massive dome of bone in the middle of 85th street..."

Oh.


	15. Burial 4

I shatter a few toes and collect my thoughts. Of course the Protectorate are interested in cape fights. They're responsible for cleaning up the messes left behind. This makes total sense, I just never thought that _I_ would be someone responsible for creating such a mess. Or that the Protectorate would personally come by to talk to me.

I really need to get a phone.

"We would like to debrief you," Battery says, interrupting my train of thought. "And if you could help clean things up that would also be much appreciated." Battery's demeanor doesn't change any but I get the sense that she's irritated. This feeling promptly intensifies when Assault starts laughing.

"Don't worry too much. The Protectorate is used to dealing with parahumans who don't immediately have a handle on every aspect of their power," he says, winking. "Trust me, this isn't the worst thing we've seen this month. Or the strangest."

They give me a lift in a PRT van which is simultaneously roomier and more intimidating than I expect it to be. I shrink my lifts and heels down a little to fit into the seats more easily, and if either of the heroes notice they don't comment. I have to wonder if that's out of respect, a simple jaded nature towards the wackiness of parahuman powers, or part of an act to get me into the Wards.

Sadly, I think this is still an improvement on my average social interaction.

About forty-five seconds into the ride there's a sound like a gunshot and I jump in my seat, turning towards the noise. Assault has his hands together and is grinning like a loon.

"Just trying to see if you're _completely_ unflappable," he says unapologetically, still smiling. Battery slaps the back of his head and I'm suddenly disoriented, like I've been looking at one of those pictures with two different images in it and only now see the young woman and the slightly older man. These are supposed to be the defenders of Brockton Bay?

"What my partner was _trying_ to do was begin interrogating you about the fight so we can focus on battlefield cleanup when we get to the site," she says in an even tone, eyes on mine. I haven't replaced the lens in my mask yet, have I? I quickly grow a rose over the gap, obscuring part of my vision. It's uncomfortable, but I don't think this conversation is going to turn into a fight.

I nod. "Isidis, Justitia and I were going out to lunch. Oni Lee showed up and attempted to kill me." Boom. The waiter. I don't know if he's alright. "When that failed, I tried to run away." Boom. "When I could not run away, I encased myself in a shell of bone until I stopped feeling anything. Once I had collected myself, I left the dome to engage Oni Lee. By that time he had fled so I decided to try and find Isidis to see if she was alright." The facts. Plain and simple.

Assault nods. "Fits with his SOP. Go in, do some damage, run away when he doesn't think he can win." He leans back against the steel wall. "Honestly, I'm a little surprised this is the first time he's gone after you. Maybe he was waiting on Bakuda to cook up something good."

"Bakuda?" I ask. I think I've heard that name before but I don't remember from where.

"The Cornell Bomber," Battery answers flatly and a memory clicks. "A Tinker that specializes in explosives, near as we can tell. She makes the bombs, other people carry them. A potent combination with Oni Lee."

I think back to the half-empty onesie and imagine a city block filled with black-clad, red and green masked duplicates, all pulling pins, and I have to ripple my ribs before I vomit again. Not now. Not while the Protectorate are watching.

In. Out. Mask on.

"But why?" I ask, trying to banish the memory of the taste of salt from my tongue. "If I killed Lung, wouldn't that mean he'd be the boss of the ABB?" In a twisted sort of way, Lee should be _thanking_ me. I just gave him a promotion.

"You killed Lung," Battery says, shrugging. "Lee takes loyalty _very_ seriously, and apparently Bakuda does too. That, and the ABB has a reputation to maintain. If the other gangs smell blood in the water, they'll attack. If the ABB kill you, they reaffirm their status as not to be fucked with. If they don't..." she shrugs. "It's a heavy blow to their reputation."

I stay silent for a moment, considering.

"What are the ways gangs can improve their reputation?" I ask. Something cold and slimy is in my stomach, and start rhythmically breaking and mending my pinky toe. I have an idea, but I could be wrong. I'd _like_ to be wrong.

"Pull off big heists, break people out of prison, kill or beat down high-profile capes," Assault starts, listing off each item with a new finger. "Showing up to Endbringer fights is a big one, and so is staying neutral or in one place for a long time." Like the Empire, he doesn't say. He shrugs with the raised hand. "It really depends though. Different acts can give different amounts and types of rep. It's not exactly a formal system."

I wait for the silence to settle. Then I ask the question.

"What about committing an atrocity and not getting caught?"

Assault and Battery exchange a look. Battery decides to answer.

"It would... depend," she says, folding her legs. "Some things you can't frame well-"

"What about mass killings?" I ask, seeing the digression for what it was. Fuck that, give it to me straight. "What about going around and spreading as much chaos as possible without being caught?"

Battery lets out a breath. "That would probably be considered a positive gain in rep, yes," she says slowly and carefully, the visible parts of her face blank.

I keep the toe bone fractured. I'm feeling this. I deserve it. "And if your reputation was tarnished by, say, having your leader killed by a new cape, you could regain that rep through one of the previous means?"

The silence is answer enough.

* * *

Breaking apart the dome is conceptually easy. The thing that makes it difficult is the sheer mass. Would make it difficult, if it wasn't for the pair of heroes beside me. Assault is able to slap things around like they're pillows, and Battery is a steady blur, moving long bars of bone to the hazard workers with a minimum of fuss. I can only imagine how much they could make in the private sector as construction workers. Then I remember NEPEA-5. Fucking anti-competitive _bullshit_.

Most of the bone goes into garbage trucks, destined for the landfill. I also give permission for the Protectorate to use a little bit of it for general research purposes. Apparently there's a law that lets them simply claim it as a spoil of war but they prefer to ask when the parahuman who made the material isn't antagonistic. Makes things less legally murky that way.

About halfway through, a truck with plastic covering every interior surface comes by. Apparently someone at the hospital got wind of the supply of perfectly good dead biomass and thought of recycling. Good thinking, that. The process slows down more as I break each piece into the uniform size that Isidis finds optimal.

I don't mind. It gives me time to think.

The first thing is the raw fucking _rage_. Why the fuck didn't I see it earlier? Of _course_ Oni Lee wasn't going to lie there and take it. Of _course_ he'd want vengeance. Of _course_ he'd need to protect his reputation.

I feel my bones flexing every time a new wave of guilt runs through me. I stop them before they can so much as crack. No, I do _not_ get to run away from this.

That's the next feeling. Guilt. If I had run earlier, then Lung would be alive and the ABB wouldn't be waging war. Or if I had been less lethal, maybe he wouldn't have been as ramped up and the Protectorate would've been able to drive him off.

If if if. So many different ways I could've handled things. And I chose the wrong one.

I stay silent during the clean up, answering questions simply and tersely. By the time the dome is gone it's nearly seven and I need to get home. Dad finding out about my powers on top of everything else that's happened today would be the icing on the fucking cake.

I walk back home, playing with my bones and trying to figure out a way to deal with all this. Two blocks away I duck behind a garage and change into my civies. I shiver as the bones pull back into my skin. It's always surprising how effectively they retain heat. Underwear, tank top, sweats, then jog home and hope Dad's not back.

He isn't. Another message on the machine. He'll be back later, and he wants to make plans for the weekend. Maybe I can use the bombing to get that pushed back until we forget about it. It feels bad avoiding him like this but we were never the most social people even before Mom died. She was the glue that held us introverts together.

I make myself some pasta and reheat some cheap store-bought sauce. Really not feeling the effort tonight. I take my meal to my room and boot up my computer so I can address something that I do know how to deal with. I go through an onion browser, create a throwaway account on PHO, and head to the thread on Lung's capture to find CharlotteHolmes.

XXX

 **Subject:** re:Employment

I am interested in hurting the ABB. If you can provide the location of their weak points, I will be at Longshire Park at 2AM. Be punctual.

This is not an acceptance of your employment offer. This is not a subtle agreement to work with you to bring in Oni Lee. This is simply my desire for information. If you cannot provide that, do not show.

I will greet you. You will respond with the color of the noun in the sentence I greet you with. If you don't I hurt you and call the Protectorate to clean up the mess.

Do not PM me back or continue to ask for my services.

XXX

I check the message over a few times. Aggressive? Maybe. But I'm feeling aggressive. The whole 'meeting at two in the morning' thing is going to be a pain in the ass but the weekend's coming up so I can afford to do it. That, and I have the beginnings of an idea about how to fix this problem. Something that I'll need some time to try out.

With that settled I hit send, log out, close down the onion browser, and power down the computer. Pretty mild as cybersecurity goes but I don't have a ton of options. I finish off the last of the pasta and set my clock to wake me at twelve. It would take maybe fifteen minutes to sprint to the park but it always pays to arrive early.

I strip down into sleep wear and settle in for a nap. Before I know it I'm out.

* * *

The alarm shocks me more than it has any right to. The sheer _viciousness_ of my instinctive blow to shut it off though...

Good thing I don't need that alarm clock. I'm not sure even Dad could put it back together again.

I get up, take off my sleep wear, and armor up. I go for subtle this time, with none of the usual flares or decorations. Just smooth bone. I step out the back and hop fences, detouring around any house with the light still on. Once I'm a good seven blocks away I get into the streets and run.

The park is a little farther away than I thought it was, and I have to backtrack a few times when I start getting into unfamiliar territory. I'll have to get a better sense of direction at some point. Not today, but soon.

The view of the ocean is different at night. It becomes a void, darker even than some parts of the sky. This close to the city there aren't any stars, and while the horizon has the cityscape to illuminate it the water doesn't. It's just a cold, inky blackness. Urban sounds, car horns, and the rush of air drift through the thicket of trees as I stand at the summit of the hill before letting my power run free.

Assault and Battery made it clear that the Protectorate doesn't mind random debris so long as it's for a good reason and I keep it semi-manageable. The information also came with a Wards offer where I could learn how to better control my power. I thanked them politely for the heads up and ignored the pitch but it did get me thinking about what sort of effect I could have on my environment.

Here would be the test run. A toe in the water, as it were.

Setting the scene takes less time than I anticipate, and after finishing up my work on the ground around the hill I climb to the top and settle down to wait.

At two o'clock on the dot, an inky substance that doesn't look like smoke so much as it looks like the very manifestation of empty space rolls out from the treeline. I stand by impassively, though I'm quietly impressed. Not sure how useful it'd be in a fight but it certainly looks pretty.

Eventually the cloud dissipates, revealing a scene from some twisted artist's nightmare. Three massive lizard-things with a canine bent that makes me think of what wolves might have looked like before the ice age, all heavy muscle and bone spikes, stand at the edge of the ring of trees. On top of them are four figures: One in a black motorcycle getup, one in a lavender and black catsuit with a domino mask, one in a white renaissance faire throwback with something that wouldn't look out of place in a stage play on his face, and one in street clothes with a cheap plastic rottweiler mask barely concealing her identity.

They would be terrifying to most people. Four capes, one who can blind you and one who can control dogs the size of cars? That's not including the two that are complete unknowns. I can imagine the Merchants running from these four, or even New Wave if there weren't any civilians present.

I still think I did them one better.

Trees of bone, no less than waist width at their thinnest, fanning out into broad canopies and forming an artificial forest on the hill. There are pathways leading to quiet groves with benches and chairs for the weary. One even has a ladder and slide for children..

Roses hang from the branches, out of reach for all but the tallest and thorned generously.

An archway of entwined branches leads up to the top of the hill which I've left free of excess decorations. Don't want to ruin anyone's wedding shoots.

I've also grown a throne, modest and comfortable, still connected to my armor. More rose blooms adorn it, and I recline lazily, forcing the group come to me. Maybe I'm playing up the royalty thing a bit much but creating the forest felt good. That and it's an excellent home field advantage.

The four capes approach, and the thing that strikes me the most is how young they look. The three who have parts of their face visible don't look much older than I do, and the dime-store nature of the tall one's costume makes me think that he doesn't have a proper job yet either.

They stop at the top of the hill, waiting. I slowly sit up, cracking my spine all the way. The one in the catsuit looks a little grossed out. Good. I form a mouth on my mask, all jagged teeth and unsettling smiles.

"It's a good night," I say conversationally.

"Black," the man in leathers says, his voice reverberating oddly. I push my concerns a little farther away. They're the real McCoy. "We're the Undersiders," he continues. "I'm Grue, the one in white is Regent, purple is Tattletale, and the last is Bitch."

I nod.

"Let's talk."

* * *

 **A/N: Hrm. 200 follows. Looks like the story's alright.**


	16. Burial 5

"What would you like to know?" Tattletale asks coyly, a wide smile on her face. A smile that reminds me of Emma, both before and after.

I snap a rib. Focus. In. Out.

"The locations of as many ABB storehouses as possible. The addresses of ABB businesses. Any and all information you have on ABB members. Names, homes, everything," I state, staring at the man in leathers.

"That's a lot," he says slowly, like each word costs him something. I shrug.

"If you can't supply it, then we have no business here. If so, good day and goodbye. I'll let you leave," I finish. It sucks that my first lead is a dead end but there's always the back up plan of violence towards random Asians in red and green until something slips out.

"Woah woah woah," the blonde says, stepping in between Grue and I. "Just because we don't know anything _now_ doesn't mean we won't later," she says, still smiling, "It'll cost you though."

I sigh and wave my hand at her. "How much do you want?" I ask. I don't have a ton of money right now but probably enough for the location of a few warehouses. If I loot them, I can probably chain the takes together until-

"We don't want cash," she says, interrupting my chain of thought. "We want you on the team."

I laugh. At first it's surprised laughter as the sheer _audacity_ of the statement stops me from thinking too much about it. Then it turns into angry laughter.

"I believe in my message I explicitly stated that I was not planning on working with you. I also believe there was a request for you to _desist_ with your own requests," I say quietly. The blonde's smile shakes a little. "Try a different price," I offer.

"The problem is that we don't want money," Grue states, putting a hand on Tattletale's shoulder and pulling her back. "If what we wanted was money, we'd hit the places ourselves and make off with the cash," he says. "What we need is more heavy hitting capes on our roster." The silence as he stares at me from behind the wisps of smoke informs me that I fit the bill.

"You are criminals," I state plainly. Tattletale shifts awkwardly and I detect a note of tension in Grue. "You rob, you steal, and you likely maim." No one denies me. I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. "Why would I want to do that?"

"If you have no choice," Grue says. The reverberation hides any tone in his voice.

"I have a choice," I state.

We stare for a bit, sizing up one another. I realize that I'd be shorter than him, even fully suited up. That, and he must have a hell of a build. I try to imagine what he might look like behind the mask.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. What he thinks is behind the bone.

"So, did I get suited up for nothing?" a lazy voice drawls. My eyes snap to the source. Regent.

"Shut up Regent," Grue says, barely shifting his gaze. "And maybe."

"Just so we haven't completely wasted your time, here," Tattletale says, tossing a phone at me. I catch it with one hand. "It's got my number in it if-" I crush it, collapsing bone around the fragile plastic, grinding down the larger pieces, and slowly opening my hand to let the debris fall out, savoring her slightly shocked expression. After a moment she recovers.

"Or you can destroy it. That's also good," she says, ignoring the laughter from her white-clothed comrade and turning to Grue. "Can we go now?"

Grue nods, and as they mount up I consider trying to take them in. I can feel the bone on Bitch's dogs singing to me, ready to warp. A twist here and there and they're stumbling. One or two steps and a few pikes of bone later and I could kill them. Then I just need to fight Grue and the other two. Tattletale seemed pretty freaked out, and if Regent was a major player I probably would've heard of him.

I could bring in four capes right now. Four _villainous_ capes.

I think back to Grue's answer. About choices.

The dogs gallop off through the archway, into the woods and out of my sight. I stand, pull my throne back into my armor, and head towards a hidden path through the trees.

All in all, an unproductive night.

* * *

I knew it was going to be exhausting trying to be a cape as well as a vigilante. I just didn't appreciate how tiring it really is until I pulled myself out of bed to go for my run and ended up wheezing barely halfway through it. I'll have to rethink my sleep schedule if I want to actually get anything done. That, and find some ABB hangout spots. At any rate, I'll be busy these next few weekends.

When I get back, Dad's eating cold cereal at the table while reading the paper, milk and cereal box still out in front of him. When I step into to the kitchen he folds up the news and looks at me.

"Taylor," he says, "Can we talk?" It's a tone I haven't heard from him in a while. Determination. The question isn't a question. His expression is different too. Harder, but not like he's angry. More like he's doing a hard job, one that he likes but has been at for far too long.

"Yeah," I answer, grabbing an apple, a bowl, and a spoon. "We can talk." I sit down on his right and pour myself some cereal. Focus on the task. Cornflakes, milk. Insert spoon, lift, bite. Repeat until full.

"You went out late last night," he says, and my heart stops. Fortunately, some part of me is basically functional and keeps with the task. Insert. Lift. Bite. His expression hasn't changed.

I don't answer the unspoken question. The noise of crunching cereal fills the room.

Dad sighs. "Could you tell me where you were?" This is a question. I can tell because the expression on his face has softened a fraction. Enough that it breaks my heart.

He really won't press me on this.

I shake my head slowly. "It's... not the right time." I don't know what to say. I fill my mouth with more cereal. How do I explain to him that I have powers? That I've been skipping school so I can meet people and find better ways to use my powers? That I nearly died _twice_?

I can't. It's that simple. It'd break us both.

Dad nods. "I'll take that for now. You promised me you'd be safe." His face goes back to hard. "I'm holding you to that."

I look back at him. I flex every rib I have to make it happen. Can't risk a break here, it'd be too loud. "I will do my best," I answer. It's honest. Oni Lee is my only real hard-counter in the city right now besides Purity, and I'm not going to be directly engaging him. Just some guerrilla warfare, bleeding the ABB out one building at a time until Bakuda can't afford to make bombs. Then I'll attack them.

Safe as I can get while still trying to deal with the fallout of killing Lung.

He nods and I feel my heart rate go back to something stable. Not a relaxed pace, though. The expression is still on. "School," he says simply.

This time I don't freak out. "It's going fine," I answer, the old standby. We've danced to this tune a lot, and it's almost reflexive at this point.

"You're not," he says, and his expression becomes hurt as well as hard. "You haven't gone to school for a week. You haven't enjoyed it for years." The two statements are like hammer blows to my lungs. I can't breath. "Taylor," he says, green eyes locking with mine, "I love you. Please. Tell me what's going on."

Powers. School. One has to give. One has to go. I can't think.

So I don't.

"Emma," I whisper. "Emma went mad."

"Oh Taylor," he says and we're hugging and I don't know how to feel and we're both crying and I don't know how long we stay like that but he's going to be late for work and I'm definitely missing my shift at the hospital and other people could end up hurt for longer because I'm gone and he's missing work and the cereal is going to be soggy and _fuck_ the cereal!

I eventually compose myself, and after we both take a moment to blow our noses on cheap paper napkins we move to the couch.

"The school," Dad says. "They should've put a stop to this."

"They didn't," I say. "Emma's dad wouldn't let them hurt his little girl, Sophia's a track star, and Madison is too connected to the two of them to punish. That and they have the numbers advantage. Anything I say will be denied a dozen times over, with alibis provided." I feel light, telling Dad all this. Odd and light. "They can't and won't do anything."

"The media," he tries.

"Tell them what?" I whisper. "I'm not important enough to cover."

He leans over to hug me. He doesn't deny it.

"What do you want?" he asks. I don't think.

"To leave," I say, and I feel as surprised as he looks. It slipped out, a dream released into daylight.

He nods. "We can do that," he says.

"Mom," I say. She'd be having kittens about twelve minutes ago, but she was a college professor. Me dropping out would-

"She'd want you happy," Dad says, and it makes sense. Mom was Mom before she was a professor. I search for another flaw.

"They'll win," I try and partially get some fire back. Some rebellion. But it's not enough, and I still feel cold and empty, exhausted from finally confessing.

"They win if you suffer," he says.

"Legality," I add.

"Homeschool," he responds.

"You're not qualified," I reply. He shrugs.

"Online courses."

"The school won't like it."

"They won't like the media shit storm of keeping a student who doesn't want to be there more," he responds.

I'm out of excuses. Dad hugs me again. "We'll figure out the details later." Just like that, I'm not going to school.

It's not the end. I'll have to fill out paperwork, talk to different people and wait. Half a dozen new and painful headaches to look forward to.

But it's a start. And I've been getting used to new and painful.

We throw out the cereal and get new bowls. There's no more chatter. Just eating. Dad's out the door as soon as he's done, leaving the dishes for me. I put them in the sink, strip, armor up, and go out the back as fast as I can.

Running feels different this time. Like I'm running to somewhere rather than away from something. I decide to add the third dimension, leaping over alleyways and intersections, testing to see how much elastic force I can pack into my bones. The uneven rooftops are never more than a well-placed pole apart. I think people are recording my run.

I don't care. I can't stop smiling.

Isidis tells me that the remains of my dome should give her enough biomass for at least a few weeks, and the few broken bones waiting for me are fixed in less than half an hour. I make some flowers for the patients in the ICU and end up idling around the reception area for a while before one of the nurses politely informs me that they're not paying me for off-peak hours. I get the message and head out, walking aimlessly along the street

What to do?

I could get started on the work to get out of school. I dismiss the thought. Too soon to ruin a holiday like this. I could go somewhere to eat. I check the time. Too early for lunch, too late for breakfast. That and I don't know any good restaurants that aren't craters.

My mood takes a dip. I wonder if Luciano's can afford to fix the damage? Insurance rates are always insane in cities with a high cape population and I know that there are shops that just don't pay them.

At any rate, food isn't something to do for an entire afternoon. I need an activity.

I wonder how the residents feel about my additions to Longshire Park?

Settled, I get to moving. Again, it feels better than it did before, like every step is twice as long, every jump at risk of sending me flying.

I wonder...

Before I know it I'm at the park. Well, on a rooftop on a street next to the park. The park itself is packed with people marveling at the bone trees. Several are missing (likely the work of an entrepreneur catering to cape geeks) but the rest have lines of yellow tape surrounding them, with PRT agents watching closely.

I try to mentally calculate the number of people there are in the streets. I eventually give up. North of several hundred. I wonder if I can host events where people get to watch me create stuff? I know there are sites online for gambling on Parahuman fights, but what about something less violent? Tinker or Mover races, Blaster firework displays, a Shaker visual art piece, something.

While I'm ruminating, a few people point towards me. Then a few more. Then half the crowd is looking in my direction. Their attention is a physical presence, pressing against me, heavy and intense.

I force myself to keep calm. I snap my bones, take my breaths, and look back impassively at the crowd below. The mass, large and not hostile. I keep reminding myself of the last part. These people are curious, awed, and maybe a bit starstruck, just like the college students at the University.

The crowd of undergrads was a lot smaller though.

What do I do?


	17. Burial 6

"Waving helps."

I jump a little as a lilting laugh follows the voice. I turn to see Laserdream drifting next to me in a red blouse and casual jeans, an entirely too satisfied grin on her face. She waves at the crowd and they roar in approval.

"See?" she says, smile barely moving.

Yes, a wave would be one option. On the other hand, then it looks like I'm just copying Laserdream. Then the narrative becomes 'White Rose is a socially awkward cape who needs help interacting with the public.'

I would prefer to fight my own battles.

I think, staring out over the crowd. What is one thing I can do that no one else can?

My gaze falls on one of my trees. Maybe something on a smaller scale?

I lift my hand and fill it with the head of a rose, sized closer to a cabbage than a flower. I focus and divide the petals as thin as I can until they're paper-light with rounded corners. Then I sever the connections between the petals until only surface tension holds them together.

A hush falls over the crowd.

I hope this works.

I toss the flower forward. It fragments into hundreds, thousands, more pieces than anyone could count. A breeze comes by and spreads them further. Sunlight filters through the petals, turning them almost peach.

I just covered the crowd in flower petals made of bone. The screams of joy seem to indicate that was a good move.

"Is it always this easy?" I ask quietly, almost to myself. Surely maintaining a good reputation has to require more effort?

"You've killed a known gang leader who basically everybody hated and lived to tell the tale," Laserdream says, still smiling as I deal with the sudden mental whiplash. What? "You have a power that can be used for healing and you haven't been in the cape scene long enough to scare people. You're playing on easy mode right now."

I deflate a little at her systematic and frank analysis of my success. Should've known. Then I jump as I feel a brief pressure on my ass. I turn towards Laserdream, who is still fucking smiling at the crowd. Did she just...

"Easiest part of you to reach, don't read anything into it. That, and chill out, you're still doing good. Part of the public relations game is momentum, and you've built up a lot of it for yourself. Now we should probably head off, unless you want to actually go down there," she says, tilting her chin towards the crowd. I shake my head almost imperceptibly, a knot of apprehension forming at the thought of walking among them, hearing their questions and concerns, being expected to answer them.

No, I think a degree of separation is required.

Laserdream flies off, slow enough at first for me to keep pace. Once I begin to catch up to her, she speeds up. So do I. The meaningless race escalates until we're deep into downtown and I have to descend to street level due to the lack of safe rooftops. Laserdream, Crystal now, joins me, hovering off the ground to help decrease the height difference between her and I. My mask hides my grin, but when a few people on the street freeze in place at the sight I nearly burst out laughing.

After a few blocks of quiet walking to catch our breath (well, I walk and breathe deeply as she floats patiently next to me), she decides to break the silence.

"You okay? Like, from the bombing," she clarifies, her voice as casual as if she were discussing the weather. Given that her family fights crime for a living, talking about violence might actually be that mundane for her.

I hope they know a good therapist.

"Isidis healed me," I answer. "There wasn't anything particularly life threatening. I think that she received more severe injuries anyway." I pause. "Does she have an armored costume?" I ask. I think she's the only one from New Wave who doesn't have a Brute rating or force fields besides Flashbang, and I can't imagine Amy hasn't had to play battlefield medic.

"Yeah, but she usually doesn't wear it to lunch," Crystal says, shrugging. "Also, she's healed a lot of local villains during Endbringer attacks. Attacking her is a bit of a no-no." Her voice goes hard. "Especially outside of a fight."

It's ironic that the team of public superheroes are the ones most concerned with the unwritten rules. But irony is usually funny, and the end of the New Wave project was only funny if you forget the human cost that was paid.

"Anyway, we've got plans for a little payback. Nothing huge," she says dismissively. "More like some rescheduling to increase the frequency of patrols in ABB territory. What's left of it, anyway."

"If you'll have me, I'd like to join you," I say, cautiously optimistic. This sounds personal enough that the patrols might be a 'family only' venture and I don't want to intrude on that. On the other hand, it seems like we definitely have a common enemy here.

"I don't make our schedules, but I'll let them know you're open to cooperation," Crystal says. I take this as code for 'we're still not over the whole debut-with-a-murder thing' and accept the decision. "Have any plans for the rest of the day?" she asks, changing the subject.

I shake my head. "Hospital is doing fine and I have a lawyer coming by this Thursday to knock out the last of the legal barriers to setting up my shop." That conversation cannot come soon enough. I'm itching to get a proper source of income. Not because I need the money, but because it will be another thing I have control over again. That, and the front step still needs fixing.

"If it's not too personal, how's school treating you?" Crystal asks.

"It's not," I respond flatly. Fortunately she gets the message and stops talking.

I hear some cameras go off and look up. We're nearing the Boardwalk. That's a lot of ground we covered in the race, but then I remember that we're both Movers. How long it will take before I'm no longer surprised by the mundane utility of powers?

"What about you?" I ask, trying to reopen the dialogue. "Classes going well?"

Apparently that was the right question to ask because Crystal starts breathlessly chatting about parahuman psychology and biology. I should've known, honestly. I mean, what other courses would you take if you were a cape?

Most of what she says goes over my head. Like, I understand the individual words in the phrase "independent thematic correlations in trigger events" but the meaning behind them escapes me, as does the significance of some powers fixing minor physical defects upon triggering. Then she starts talking about the mindsets of the various different types of capes and I snap back to attention.

"Could you go over that again?" I ask. When Crystal shoots me a quizzical glance I clarify. "The mindsets of the various different categories of cape." That seems like fairly critical knowledge for _anyone_ who has to deal with capes.

"Well, in broad strokes, people in different categories want different things that tend to correlate with the category their power falls under," Crystal says, steering us towards some food trucks. "For example, Strangers can get away with a lot of stuff, so they often act without a care in the world. They tends towards bold moves and egocentrism. Again, this is in broad strokes," she adds, flipping a hand over dismissively. "Like, there are plenty of Protectorate Strangers that have a cool head and are plenty cautious. It's just that when you give the Ring of Gyges to people they-"

"-will go off to kill the king and fuck his wife," I interrupt quietly. Mom didn't spend a lot of time on the Republic but it briefly came back into vogue when people tried applying its theories on the ideal state to managing a society of capes. Some Thinkers, some Masters, and other capes with organizational powers at the top in the gold group, most other capes as auxiliaries in silver, and everyone else in the working class. It held up until Vikare died, the stock market plunged because Flipcoin decided to mess around with a few numbers, and the scarier capes started showing up and wiping small towns off the map in fits of pique.

Crystal blinks once before breaking into a smile. "So you were listening," she teases before tapping a free table with three chairs. "Mind saving the table while I order some food? I'm starving." I look to a nearby clock on a taco truck. Guess the race must have taken up more time than I thought. I nod and sit down, folding one leg over the other. Crystal drops to the ground and walks over to a truck with faded pictures of Greek food on the side. I stare off into the distance, processing.

It's ironic, isn't it? That the powers people get don't usually match the goals they have. I think about Lung. What could've happened to make him like he was? What drove him? He came out of nowhere, a non-entity until he picked a fight with the entire Brockton Bay Protectorate, won, and 'unified' all the Asian gangs in the area, but why? If he'd wanted money, there must have been half a hundred ways for him to get it without painting such a large target on his back. If he'd wanted power, why stay a small-time crook in a relatively tiny New England town? Why not go to New York and gain rep picking fights with Legend and _surviving_? Why not travel to Africa and carve out some territory for himself?

I think about Crystal's Stranger example. People who can disappear from sight, one way or another, and they want to be the center of attention. What would a person who could escalate endlessly want? To stand out? No, if he wanted to stand out he'd go to Endbringer fights and be the cornerstone of the defense against them. I can only imagine how much he could scale up to then. Or he could go to LA and fight Alexandria, or Chicago or Houston or Philly or any city bigger than Brockton Bay where the Protectorate capes are less capes and more forces of nature. Like, Armsmaster is the seventh strongest hero in the Protectorate, but _Chevalier? Myrddin?_ There are bigger fish, sharks even, that he could cut his teeth on. So why settle down by the one man who _won't_ give you a fair fight? Why challenge a Tinker, the second worst matchup you could have besides a hard-core Master?

Why would a dragon who could fight off entire teams of heroes slumber in Brockton Bay? After a moment of wool gathering I shake my head. I don't know enough about Lung to ask what he would do. I change the question.

What would I do with that level of power? The answer comes to me in an instant.

Peace.

The answer shocks me. It's so natural and it _fits_. Why did Lung avoid fights? _Because he didn't want them._ What he'd do with all the free time peace would grant him is anyone's guess. Maybe he was a massive anime fan and just wanted to finally sit down and catch up on all the shows archived in the wake of the sinking of Kyushu. Maybe he's a thinker, lower-case "T," and wanted time to put together a plan that would gain him enough power to etch his name into the history books. Maybe his power gave him immortality and he just wanted to wait his enemies out. What did anyone actually _know_ about Lung?

I start laughing, hard enough that my abdomen starts aching. I can't help it. I'm not sure what instinct cracks open my mask and forms teeth, but I'm thankful for it. Otherwise I'm not sure I'd be able to breathe.

Crystal walks back with a wrap in each hand, an eyebrow raised. "Is something funny?"

I shake my head one last time, slowly and carefully. "I just realized how reasonable some people are." Figures. If I hadn't started anything with Lung he probably would've let me do whatever I wanted so long as I stayed out of his way. Bad timing. _Really_ bad timing. If I had left earlier, or later, or taken a different route...

"Well, I got you a gyro," she says, rolling one of the wraps across the table. "On me." I take it and nod in thanks. Good thing too. I didn't think to grab any money for lunch. I remember about the bag of cash lying in the basement. Last time I checked there was a few thousand dollars in it. Not the most secure place in the world but I don't have a bank account yet. That, and there's something about seeing stacks of cash that's viscerally pleasing to me.

"Hey, can I join you two?" a voice asks. Familiar, but not overly so. I turn. A girl in a yellow blouse and a pencil skirt with a backpack hanging off one shoulder. Lisa.

"Hello again," she says. She has a smile on her face, but it's a restrained one. Like she's happy to be here but not over the moon about it.

"Do you know this girl?" Crystal asks after a short silence, eying her up and down. Not in a sexual way. More like scanning for threats.

"Yes," I say before things can get out of hand. "Lisa. She's the one who introduced me to Luciano's. Please, sit down." I motion towards the empty chair.

She does so, dropping her bag by her chair then sliding gracefully into the seat with a smile. "It's good to see you again White Rose." Her posture shifts a little as she leans forward and rests her head on her hands and puts her elbows on the table. "So, what's new with you?"

I shrug. "Still waiting for things to come together. Yourself?"

She sighs dramatically. "Well, _first_ , there was the bombing. Thanks to that, my work schedule is _completely_ fucked. All. Available. Holes," she says, looking me dead in the eye before shifting her gaze to Crystal. "Then I get called up out of the blue by some person I barely know and when I try to meet with them they're completely uncompromising."

"Were you okay?" Crystal asks idly. Her tone is light, but there's an undercurrent of genuine concern in it. It's interesting how just a moment ago she was worried about me. I wonder if empathy for others is a general trait of heroes?

Lisa waves a hand at her. "I had some coworkers with me, they would've stepped in if things had gotten bad. Anyway," she says, changing subjects, "I was actually looking for you in particular, Rosie."

"Rose," I state, mentally bristling. I didn't like it from Hookwolf and I still don't like it from her.

"Rose then," she says, recovering quickly. "Anyway, I found out about a new team in town. I know you said you weren't interested," she says, holding up a hand in my direction, "But bear with me."

"Five minutes," I say, glancing at the clock and counting off the seconds. I make a mental note to maintain a greater distance from the general population in the future. No more going to lunch with random civilians, even if they offer to pay. It's a short and slippery slope to getting an unwanted cape-life counselor.

"So, the Traveler's just came into town. They've been villains for a while," I begin to get up, as does Crystal. Lisa throws up her hands in exasperation, unbridled annoyance flowing off her in waves. "They've also said they're turning over a new leaf, they haven't committed any _seriously_ over the line offenses in their entire career, and they fought Alabaster and Victor at an Empire safe house two days ago!" she finishes. "Jeez, it's like being labeled a villain automatically makes you a bad person."

Crystal and I exchange glances but sit back down. "A new leaf, you say?" Crystal asks.

Lisa nods. "Yup. They put a post up on PHO. Their mission statement, explanations for past activities, plans for reparations to the people they've injured, everything." She grabs her bag and pulls out a manilla envelope. "Made a dossier for each member, wrote up a summary of their history, and printed off all of their promotional material." She puts on a smug grin. "Saves us all some time."

I pass the promotional information to Crystal and skim the dossiers, focusing on the powers. A strange but versatile form of teleportation (seems handy), a nearly-unlimited shape changer (well there's the heavy-hitter), _instantaneous acceleration of inorganic matter? Creating a SUN?_ Jesus. How do they not have half a hundred fatalities to their names? They've moved around a lot, sure, but Lisa's right. Nothing worse than a few cripplings and some property damage despite the insane lethality of their power sets. Like, how do you even turn super-sonic munitions into something that doesn't just murder anyone whose not a Brute?

"Their manifesto is well done," Crystal says. I look up to see a contemplative expression gracing her features. "The language is well thought out, slanted in a way that indicates an interest in atoning for past wrongs while also pointing out what good they can do in the future. They've also apparently got new costumes already, and that certainly helps sell the fresh-start idea." I take a look at the group's outfits. Red on white, big, bright and inspiring, with masks that show at least parts of their faces. Except for the shapeshifter, of course. Genesis, apparently.

"So, watcha think?" Lisa says, smile wide. "Maybe talk to them?"

"Maybe," I answer, gathering up the materials and shuffling them together. "Thank you for your help."

Things wrap up soon after that. Crystal flies off, Lisa texts someone before heading towards the docks, and I sprint back home with Lisa's materials clutched in my hands. I still probably won't join them but maybe we can work out a joint patrol schedule or something.

Once I'm back home I spill the papers out onto the desk in the basement, right next to the sack of money. Time for some closer reading. As I flick on the cheap desk lamp by the old silver-bound mirror, I notice something flicker on the folder. I hold it up to the light.

Parts of the folder are translucent. It looks like gibberish, but I flip it over and the squiggles transform into letters and numbers. Dates, times and addresses. In the corner there's a note with another address just below it.

 _I know you want to play the lone wolf, but a common enemy is still a common enemy. The Travelers will be hitting these locations at these times. They'll meet at this place every time before a raid. Feel free to join them!_

 _-Tt_

I copy down the information in code into a composition book, then burn the folder in the furnace, thinking about Lisa, Tattletale and what link she could have to the Travelers.


	18. Burial 7

After fuming for a solid hour, I decide to join the Travelers on a raid once. Just once. If everything goes well, I'll figure out what to do from there. I'm not sure what Tattletale is planning, how long she's been planning it, or what her endgame is, but honestly?

I don't care.

It's probably a bad idea to let a Thinker play mind games. On the other hand, it's probably a worse idea to try to out-think them. There are a _lot_ of stories about how a person had a Thinker on the ropes, went in for the kill (sometimes not metaphorically) and ended up playing themselves. So I'll be Tattletale's little pawn and see how things play out. If worst comes to worst I can always _just eviscerate her_.

Huh. Inner murder voice and I are in sync. Pretty sure that's not a good thing.

I pick a date and address about a day before I'm scheduled to meet with John Doe. That should leave enough time for me to get some sleep and ensure I'm presentable. In the meantime I wander around town, fill out the paperwork needed to complete my withdrawal from school (Dad was right, at the mention of Channel 6 they practically broke their pens in their eagerness to sign), and kill time at the hospital fixing broken bones, occasionally visiting the ICU to make flowers for the patients Isidis can't use corpses to cure. The gang war isn't even close to over but at this point the first wave of foot soldiers are all shot up and out of ammo so both sides are waiting to recover and resupply.

Still. Eleven days. These are supposed to peter out quickly.

The raid was scheduled for late afternoon, right when the sun is setting. I arrive at the rally point maybe thirty minutes early in full regalia. I've only got one chance to make a first impression after all, and I'd like to make it a good one.

The Travelers are planning to rendezvous in a rundown building with broken windows and graffiti from half a dozen gangs caked onto the walls. The door opens easily enough, and I am immediately thankful for my bone boots when I get a look at the floor. Used needles, shards of glass, and garbage everywhere. Lovely.

I make my way to the roof, filling the locks in with bone and twisting them into impromptu keys where the doors aren't simply left open. Once I get to the top I make a park bench of bone and sit down to wait. I really need to start bringing a book to these things. That, or get a phone and put some music on it.

* * *

"Hey."

I snap out of my doze and leap to my feet, drawing the bench back into my armor and prepping half a dozen needles. A man in a red suit and top hat with a white shirt and a Melpomene and Thalia half-mask raises his hands defensively.

"Woah woah woah, no need for that," he says, the slight rasp in his voice emphasized by his sudden caution. "Just wanted to wake you up."

I take in my surroundings. Another man in a white half-visor and thick red armor over a white bodysuit with plenty of pockets is holding a few ball bearings, aiming them in my direction. Meanwhile, a woman in white armor with red suns crawling up one side has her hands together, her nervousness betrayed by her stance and the crease in the brow of her cowl. A shadow falls over me and I twist my head up to see the source. An eight-foot scaley gorilla, extra eyes on its shoulders and forehead, glowing a soft and oddly relaxing orange.

 _Needle to the brain of the gorilla, a blade across the throat of the man in front of me, hope I can take whatever the ball bearing thing is, close the distance and-_

I snap a toe bone. Play nice. We're all on the same side here.

"Sorry," I manage, drawing the needles back in. "Just a little on edge." Damn it, of all the time for the murder to slip out...

"No problem," the man in the red suit says, his tone stating that it clearly is but he's not going to press it. The gorilla steps back, the ball bearings go back into a pocket, and the woman drops her hands to her sides. "Anyway, I'm Trickster, the leader of our merry group." He points to ball-bearing man and I realize how large he is relative to his leader. "That's Ballistic." He moves his hand to point to the woman. "This is Sundancer."

She offers a small wave. "Hello," she says quietly. I return the wave.

"And last but not least we have Genesis." I turn to the gorilla and nod politely before taking a step to the side so I can face them all.

"A pleasure to meet you all." Ballistic, Trickster and Genesis nod back, and Sundancer's exposed lips twist into what I think is a smile. There's a moment of silence before Trickster rolls his shoulders.

" _Anyway_ , now that the formalities are out of the way, want to go beat up some gangsters?" His voice brightens to something almost happy and the tensions drops to a more bearable level.

I nod.

* * *

We walk to the ABB storehouse, and along the way I ask about their transportation. I mean, the shapeshifter could acquire a Mover rating pretty easily but I'm not sure how the rest of them keep up. Trickster tells me about the van their 'mysterious sponsor' hooked them up with.

"Free vehicles and costumes," he says, tugging at the lapels of his suit. "One of the _many_ benefits of being on this team." I listen to the recruitment pitch with as much enthusiasm as I did the rest of them. Admittedly, the Travelers offer a lot more freedom than the Wards (I can choose not to engage in _anything_ ) but something seems... off. Ballistic hasn't said more than three sentences since we've met, and while Sundancer seems nice she also doesn't seem happy. She acts casual but there's a tension in her joints that make my own ache in sympathy. I don't get much off Genesis but her (apparently?) chatter sounds forced. I can't quite get a bead on Trickster either. I don't get the feeling that he's hiding anything in particular, and his jokes feel natural, but it's almost like he subconsciously doesn't believe most what he's saying.

Once the formalities are out of the way we decide to split up into two teams. Trickster and I will move into the building itself while Sundancer, Genesis and Ballistic take out the people who get past us and try to flee.

"Why don't Genesis and I go in?" I ask. Why leave a perfectly good Brute outside where she won't able to interact with the enemy?

"Ballistic needs someone who can tank damage, and switching a massive gorilla around is going to be slow and unwieldy compared to swapping you from place to place. Trust me," he says, casting his gaze sideways to make eye contact with me, "This isn't our first rodeo."

"We're here." Sentence number four from Ballistic. I look down the street at our target. It's two blocks away, with a nondescript concrete facade, boarded-up windows, and a pair of guards armed with stubby little guns hanging across their chests. They look up, presumably spot the five flamboyantly dressed capes, and begin to bring up their weapons when there are a pair of cracks and they both spin around, slam into the building, and fall over. I turn to the side to see Ballistic roll his wrists and then reach into a plastic tube, pulling out a pair of small projectiles I vaguely recall from gym class. Then it clicks.

"Shuttlecocks?" I ask incredulously. Cape tools can be strange at times, but _Badminton_ equipment?

"Literally the least lethal thing I've found," he states, a note of something sad entering his voice. "Now go on in before their buddies call on the radio and don't get an answer."

I nod and start walking down the street. One of the fallen ABB turns into Trickster, and as he rolls to his feet I mentally reassess him. That's some smooth teleportation. He points to the man next to him, then to me and tilts his head. I shake mine and walk the rest of the way.

Trickster puts a hand on the door and looks at me. "Can I switch you around with random gangsters in there?"

"You may," I say, bending my knees slightly and preparing to dash through the door.

"If I do, it's because there's someone with a big gun by you that needs a clubbing, alright?" he clarifies, all business. "Okay. On my mark." I nod, heart racing. This is actually happening.

"Three." I'm about to engage other people. People with guns. Of my own free will.

"Two." I'm starting something here. By hitting back I'll be validating what Oni Lee and Bakuda did. I'll be making myself a target.

"One." I ripple my ribs, a _click-click-click-click_ of pain and focus. Fuck them. They chose to target random people. They chose to pursue me after I killed Lung. If they didn't want their people cut to pieces, _they shouldn't have tried to pluck the rose!_

"Mark!" Trickster yells, throwing open the door. I move through it like a calcium Amazon.

It's a tall room, with a staircase in the back that leads up to a closed door. Cheap folding tables run parallel, one end to the other, covered with loose white powder and plastic bags. Too-thin women in only underwear and dust masks surround them, their dull eyes focused on hands moving to and fro, separating drugs into neat little piles, packaging the product, or placing it into cardboard boxes. I can see track marks on some of their arms as well as poorly-healed horizontal scars.

The nervousness is gone. Hot, sharp rage remains.

The woman nearest to my left is replaced with a confused-looking gangster in red and green scrambling for the pistol down the front of his sweatpants. I step up to him, towering, and slam a punch endowed with all the speed my shell can give it into the side of his face. I feel something crack and he goes sprawling into a table. Said table flips, spilling powder, bags, and boxes everywhere. The too-thin women step back, their eyes finally shifting away from their hands to me.

I don't have time to try and figure out what they think of me though, as another gangster pops into place, this time close and to the right. I twist and _stretch_ , bringing a freshly-grown baton down just to the left of his head with a crack. Howl. Crack again when I step close and slam a hand against his temple.

This. This is why capes decide how things are run. Power. And shit like this _still_ happens.

A gunshot rings out and I whip my head towards the source. A scared teenager, eyes wide, not two paces away from me. Another gift, courtesy of Trickster. I'm loving his support. Step, fist straight to the nose, listen for the crunch, then a sphere of bone around his hands. He can be awake to see his friends _brought to ruin_.

A boom sounds out and my back flares in pain. I spin to catch sight of an old man across the room by the exit, furiously trying to work the slide on a shotgun. Then it gets replaced with a broom. Then he gets replaced with a woman and he's within striking distance. I see something cold and cruel shatter in his eyes as he realizes that he's not in a position of power anymore. Then I feel a small bone shatter in his hand as I stab a needle into it, then his shoulder blade breaks as I push it deeper. I let the needle snap off as he falls back with his arm pinned across his body and scan the room for more gangsters.

Nothing.

Trickster stands over another four, a stun gun held idly in his hand, looking at me with an inscrutable gaze. Damn. I mentally adjust his threat rating up again. He turns his gaze to the side and I follow it.

Maybe three dozen women stare at the two of us. I look down at myself and see blood on the surface of my hands. I look back up and there's more than a little fear in their eyes.

I look to Trickster, who's hitting buttons on a sleek black phone. "You can help them?"

"Calling the police right now," he says, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he walks over to one of the unconscious thugs at my feet and pulls out some zip ties.

I nod. "I'm going up to the second floor, okay?"

He nods, twisting the first guy's arms behind his back and working them through the loops. I walk towards the staircase. The women remain still, following me with their eyes. I snap a toe bone with every step. Calm. Stay calm.

The corrugated metal steps clang oddly under my feet, the sound too high and sharp for their thickness. The climb is over in an instant, and when I go to unlock the door I'm not sure what to expect. More packaged product, maybe. Stacks of cash, lying in neat blocks or scattered haphazardly.

What I get is a rather well-organized office with a small, bespectacled man sitting next to a smashed computer and a pile of smoldering papers. He spins around in the desk chair and looks me in the eye.

"I surrender myself to the due process of law," he says, calmly and evenly. Like he has no connections to the atrocity down there. Like he expects to get off scot free because he was just a bystander. I reach out towards him, ready to _take a pound of flesh and teach him the consequences of simply standing by when evil is done, and see how much he likes it as he writhes on the ground while people laugh and laugh and laugh and-_

I snap a few ribs and wrap his hands in bone, forming makeshift cuffs. No. He surrendered. The law will take care of things. I lead him down the stairs and the women shy away from him as he walks through the room. Trickster has already finished securing the last of the gangsters and is waiting next to the door for me.

"Who's this?" he asks, jerking his chin towards my prisoner.

"No idea," I answer, motioning to the floor next to the unconscious muscle. "But he was in the office, wrecking their stuff." The man sits down cross legged, his expression still blank.

Trickster shrugs. "Not our job." Ballistic and Genesis come in behind him, the shapechanger carrying another four red and green clad 'bangers, evenly split between men and women. Trickster goes to tie them, and when one of them tries to ignore him Genesis gently taps his arms. He offers his hands up quickly after that.

Once the muscle is secured we stand there in silence, listening to the sirens get closer.

* * *

The debrief from the PRT is surprisingly painless. The one from the police is less so.

Once the PRT thinks that all parahuman violence was non-crippling they depart, leaving me with brochures about the dangers of bladed, blunt and piercing weapons respectively, as well as a subtle warning about being too violent. I take the chastisement with a nod, resisting the urge to ask about how many drug houses _they've_ shut down.

The police, meanwhile, have us hang around until every wound, every drop of blood, every shell casing, and every fragment of shuttlecock is accounted for. It takes almost an hour for them to decide that we were justified in our entry and that we didn't break any laws too egregiously.

"You're free to go," the lead detective says, shaking hands with Trickster and walking back towards a waiting cruiser.

"What about the women?" I ask. The detective stops, drops his shoulders, and turns around. His eyes seem to have sunken deeper than they were before, and the flecks of grey in his hair seem more pronounced.

"Chances are they'll be charged with aiding and abetting." Before I can respond he holds up a hand. "Extenuating circumstances will lead to a reduced sentence and therapy. They won't be going to a real prison," he says, eyes gaining a little light. "We'll get them help." The women have been wrapped in blankets and are reciting quiet, dull responses to some EMT's, who send them to either an ambulance or a cruiser once they've finished their interviews.

I try to feel good about this. I really do. But when I get back home and lay down to rest, I can't stop thinking about how the detective didn't say anything about the chances of their recovery.


	19. Burial 8

"What was the one thing I said would help you remain neutral? The one thing?"

John Doe ("Mr. Doe until we open the shop, only serious business partners get to use my first name.") has close-cut brown hair shot through with threads of silver and the build of an athlete. Not like a runner or a swimmer. More like a linebacker shrunk down to two hundred pounds instead of three.

I sigh, slowly sawing through the steak Mr. Doe ordered for me ahead of time. "Don't go on patrol." I manage not to break a toe bone in irritation. Barely. It would be a tad ungrateful.

When Mr. Doe said he would buy me lunch, I didn't appreciate what that meant until I showed up at a place with a name I couldn't pronounce where no one was allowed through the entrance in anything less than a suit. The menu at the door didn't have prices on it, and every name was infuriatingly French. My nervousness only increased when a waitress escorted me to a private room where Mr. Doe sat waiting.

I don't want to think about how much it all costs, so I swallow my pride and keep eating.

He sighs, having another bite of his rack of lamb before continuing. "It's not impossible to get investors as an independent hero, but it's harder. People don't like worrying about their venture capital being blown up." I wince at the rather current context of his statement. I think he picks up on it because he puts down his fork and looks across the table at me. "I get that you have powers. I get that you want to make the world a better place by going out and bringing in criminals. But the Protectorate is literally paid to do that. They get _years_ of training and the best technical support in the world. And they're the ones who do it because it's a dangerous job that can and does get you killed."

I think back to my encounter with Lung and bite into my meat a little more aggressively than is probably necessary.

We eat in silence for a bit.

"Do you have the signatures?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Right here," I answer, pulling out the folder with the forms in it. He scans the papers before nodding and placing the folder down beside his chair.

"Now we just need that meeting with the Mayor's office and the PRT. What days are good for you?" he asks, taking a sip of his seltzer water. I shrug.

"Basically any day, any time. I don't have a lot of things clogging up my schedule," I say, contemplating the upcoming weeks and marveling at how much free time I'll have. Mr. Doe dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

"You don't have school?"

I look at him across the table, thorns growing out of my armor. If he actually knows who I am, _he can't be allowed to get to a computer or a phone before I kill him_. But he'd probably have a few dead drops so _I'll need to find those first. Does he have family? Someone I can use to make sure he doesn't set them off early? Can I get to his family? If not, what's another source of leverage? Is he a good enough samaritan that he would put his life on the line for a random gangbanger? A random person the street? I'll have to follow him out of the restaurant, find a quiet space, whack him across the back of his head. Fast, because some of the dead drops will be time based. But what if he's seen this coming and-_

"Relax." His voice cuts through the murder haze and I notice his face again. It's remarkably calm. He points to my hands. "You're breaking the silverware."

I look down. The fork and knife I'm holding are bent nearly double and there are gouges in the table where the hastily-grown thorns have torn through the soft wood. I wince behind my mask. That's going to be expensive.

Also, _fuck_. I just almost killed my lawyer. Guilt spikes through me and I pull the thorns back in, sagging from a sudden wave of exhaustion. How badly did I just screw myself over?

"I asked about school because you didn't bring any forms that needed a statement from a banker," he continues, dropping his eyes and going back to his meal. "Now, that could be for a variety of reasons. You could be an ex-con and the bank could be refusing you service. Probably not though," he adds, waving a hand dismissively. "Criminals who develop powers don't tend to start legitimate businesses. You could be an illegal immigrant but given that you don't have an unusual accent or difficulties speaking English that seems unlikely. So, out of the legal limitations that could stop you from opening up a bank account, age seemed the most likely, and also implied that your guardians don't know about your power." He grabs a roll, tears it in half, and starts mopping up the remains of his meal with it. "So before we go too much farther, I want to clarify a few things." He looks back at me with an almost primal fury on his face.

"I'm **not** interested in helping a kid go out and play hero. I'm not interested in funding your death. If you want to find someone who will do that, join the Wards. I want to help another adult make it in the world. If you're doing this because you want to cut class and be a _superhero_ ," he practically spits the word out, "Then you can find yourself different legal representation."

Something fragile and pleasant shatters inside me. Rage roars through the breach.

"Do not presume to know about why I have chosen this path," I whisper, meeting his gaze and actively pushing down the blades under my skin that want to _reach across the table and fillet him_. "If you want to leave this restaurant unharmed, choose your words more carefully, sir. This is not a small decision for me. I have not idly thrown away a normal life. It was _torn from me_ ," I growl, shattering ribs left and right loud enough that he should be able to hear them across the table, "And I am trying to _spite_ my tormentors in a way that doesn't leave them corpses and me on the run."

We maintain the impromptu staring contest for too long. We both blink after a minute.

"I was out of line-"

"I'm sorry-"

We both pause, and Mr. Doe sighs.

"May I?" I nod. He nods back before taking a breath and letting it out.

"I have seen how some other members of my profession encourage their clients to go out and be heroes," he says, looking at nothing in particular. "Some of them represented small children." I note the past tense. I wonder if it means that they dropped the kids or if the kids are no longer around? "With all due respect," he begins again as his gaze lands back on me, "I find that most children with powers are either spoiled brats or simply incapable of functioning in everyday life due to some sort of mental trauma. Telling one of them to fight strikes me as a morally indefensible action. So, when I meet parahumans who have not met their majority, I check to see if they are sane before I take them on as clients." He looks pointedly at the gouges. I lay my hands flat on the table, deliberately avoiding the damaged areas.

"You say that, and your first course of action is to needle the very cape who has asked you for help." My mind is racing, trying to find ways to turn this around while also shoving away the spikey murder thoughts. "Isn't that a little hypocritical of you?" It's not a _little_ hypocritical, but I'm trying to be the bigger person here.

I keep telling myself that, even as I struggle to keep the jagged things inside of me. He shrugs.

"Yes. On the other hand, I need proof that I can interact with you as an adult." He finishes the last of his water and his face softens from focused to tired. "All I need to know is if I can trust you to take my advice and seriously consider it. I need to know if I should drop you as a client because I won't be able to hold you to your word."

I lean back, dropping my hands into my lap and thinking. Will I stop patrolling? Maybe when Oni Lee is dead or the ABB stop coming after me. Can I keep my word? As long as I'm careful with it. Can I take working with some _slimy little lawyer shit who would only understand fucking_ _ **misery**_ _if I bled him out from over the edge of a-_

I snap a toe bone. Yes, I can.

"There is a personal reason I would prefer not to discuss for why I am targeting the ABB," I say, tone even. "Beyond that you can expect me not to instigate conflict with anyone else unless myself or my property comes under attack, and then I will retaliate proportionally to ensure that future attacks are discouraged." His face sours at that last bit but I still get a nod of understanding. "You can trust me to never lie to you and to keep my promises. Is that enough?" I finish, managing to keep any and all bitterness from my voice.

He mulls it over for some time, simply looking at me. It's an odd experience. Dr. Fedorov looked at me like I was a sample on a slide, and Crystal like I was too close to the edge of a rooftop. His analysis feels more like a spreadsheet, a careful and unbiased weighing of costs and benefits. I turn my gaze away from him, trying to find something, anything, to distract myself. I look down at my hands below the lip of the table and see talons. I pull them back, but keep the bone pliant.

I start growing an arrangement, channeling my barely-restrained indignation into the lukewarm bone. Roses appear, as do magnolias, fully grown, the kind of bloom that you see just before they die. I twine the stems, trying to weave them into a crown sized for a kid. No thorns. One smooth tendril grows into the next until a pattern impossible to make in reality is formed, intricate and infinite.

Once the little circlet is done I lift it up and place it gently on the table before disconnecting from it, the warmth slowly fading.

"May I?" I look up. Mr. Doe's gaze has shifted from me to my creation. I push it across to him wordlessly. He picks it up, surprise etching itself into his face.

"It's light," he comments. I shrug.

"Bone has one of the greatest strength-to-weight ratios in the world," I say, trying to get a read on him. I think I see something like wonder.

He turns it around, admiring the symmetry, and then his eyes get that faraway look Dad's sometimes do when we talk about Mom. I swallow down something hard. He eventually puts down the circlet and looks at me.

"I'll see you at the PRT building tomorrow at noon." He doesn't seem particularly excited about it, but he doesn't seem unhappy either. I nod and accept that getting him to trust me will take some time. He cracks a smile. "Dessert?" I almost laugh at the sudden release of tension, and a hysterical kind of happiness flows through me. I relax.

"Why not?"

* * *

Mr. Doe leaves me with a burner phone that has his number on it, bought from a cheap electronics store after we left the restaurant.

"I look forward to our appointment," he says, looking me in the eye more easily than some. Part of that is his exceptional height, part of that is a slight decrease in the lifts on my heels.

We had agreed to be equals, after all.

I head back home more slowly than I'm capable of but still faster than a normal human. I don't really know what my standing with Mr. Doe is right now but I want to call it tentatively professional. It could be worse, but if I hadn't mauled a table in front of him things definitely would have gone better.

Once I'm back in my room I check PHO. The raid on the drug house has its own thread with multiple professional-looking photos of it gracing the top of the page along with statements from the Protectorate, the police, and the Travelers themselves. Well, a statement from Trickster at least. I can't really see Ballistic using more than two adjectives in one paragraph.

There's some talk about me as well. Some of it's nice comments on how this is an unambiguous good, and I feel warmth rush through me as I read them. Some of it's not so great, pointing out my relative inaction before this. Those posters get shut down by a few others for being off topic, but they still bring up... complicated emotions.

Then there's the bad.

The guy I stabbed? He's still in the hospital. It turns out that the paramedics misdiagnosed his right arm and that they won't be able to fix his shoulder. The end result is a permanent range of motion limitation and chronic pain. Isidis could heal it but she made it clear a few months after her debut that gangbangers wouldn't get much more than life support from her. When she came under fire for that, she just shrugged and told the public to pick a safer profession.

The reactions to my mutilation of the gangbanger have been mixed. The barely-veiled E88r's are ecstatic, the ABBr's promise vengeance and cry for oversight, and the people with random in-jokes as their handles are split. On the one hand, slavers. On the other hand, permanent maiming. Most seem to fall under the "join the Wards and get some training" umbrella, with a few nutjobs hailing me as the second coming of Shadow Stalker or decrying me for daring to harm another human being when I had less dangerous options available.

I hug a pillow and look at the screen, memorizing the face of the now-crippled gangster, trying to figure out how I feel. One part of me doesn't care. At all. This guy was a thug who chose his own path. He could have dropped the gun. He could have decided to be a baker and not been there in the first place. He was a free, rational agent who had options that wouldn't have lead to me stabbing him.

The other part of me sees how this could affect what people do when they see me on the street. That part reminds me about how New Wave _definitely_ won't be going out on patrol with me now, and how any business I try to start is going to be known as the place run by a cape who crippled a guy. I'm not sure how people will react to that.

When I go to sleep I'm met with troubled dreams and the feeling that I fucked up, but only in an airy, intellectual sense. There's a stronger feeling of satisfaction, and I try not to think too hard about where that's coming from.


	20. Burial Interlude

There are times when my job is made harder than it needs to be.

Sometimes that is when a previously-unknown parahuman kills the most powerful cape in the city and kicks off a gang war between an unstable Tinker with a remarkably destructive specialty and a group of superpowered Nazis. The knee-jerk reaction is to double up patrols, call all hands to battlestations, make broad public statements about how this is the last time villainous parahumans will break the law, and make a concerted effort to go after the stronger side.

That is _exactly_ the wrong thing to do.

Doubling the number of patrols means double the number of fights, which means double the number of injuries, which means double the down time even with Isidis providing discounted healing. A gang war is _exactly_ the wrong time to have a valuable parahuman benched because they ran afoul of their natural counter. Most of the parahumans I work with understand this, even the younger ones in the Wards.

"What do you _mean_ I can't have more patrols!?"

Sophia Hess. If she wasn't actually good at bringing in criminals she'd be in juvenile hall, then prison shortly afterwards if her behavior is anything to go by. As is, a little paperwork and a few rants are worth a noticeable drop in street crime.

"I _mean_ that we anticipate an increase in Empire and ABB activity, and they are likely to be more lethal than normal," I say calmly, pushing down the mild disgust that wells up in me whenever a spoiled brat comes into my office demanding things. "For that reason I cannot allow an increase in patrols, especially given your penchant for wandering off on them." The unspoken threat of actually making something of her blatant violations of procedure hangs between us.

Sophia grinds her teeth together before stomping out. I take another sip of coffee, savoring the caffeine and the taste of a job well done.

The knee jerk response to hearing a junior demand a meeting is to deny them. The orders come from above and go down, not the other way around. Basic stuff, and entirely correct when working with regular people.

 _Exactly_ wrong when working with parahumans.

Each parahuman has their own issues, but most of them come with a form of egocentrism. They _aren't_ normal people who will follow orders when it makes sense or when they don't know what to do. Thus, they must be indulged, allowed to have their tantrums, be given a pat on the back for every tiny thing they do right, and sternly reprimanded for their failures. It's like training dogs, but less pleasant and less permanent.

I turn back to the bottomless pile of paperwork and pull out the first page. Say what you will about the banality of filling out forms in triplicate, it's a break from talking to madmen and trying to get them marching in the right direction.

* * *

Over time, I've found myself gravitating towards particular types of parahumans and away from others. They're all crazy on some level but certain classifications are easier to deal with. Blasters, Strikers and Shakers tend to be fairly normal. Masters and Thinkers can't be trusted to not use their powers in social situations and should be treated as perpetually combative. Tinkers are generally the least difficult to work with. Away from a lab, most of them are essentially regular people, albeit distractible ones. So long as you don't allow them to go off on a tangent and make sure you never meet them when they have access to their full kit, you can almost trick yourself into thinking you're talking to a mere mortal.

That's why I wait three days before calling Kid Win to my office. He shows up in a red bodysuit and domino mask, the latter poorly concealing his concern. Good. That worry will make this easier. I lay aside a half-filled expense report and look up at him.

"Sit down," I say. He does, and I wait a beat for the silence to emphasize the importance of this conversation.

"You brought unapproved Tinkertech into the field," I state plainly, and Kid Win's face falls further. Good. This was cluster fuck of unimaginable proportions, more than partially due to his actions. He _should_ feel like shit. "Could you please explain to me why you did this?"

"We were going up against Fenja and my pistols weren't doing anything," he mumbles eyes falling to his lap.

"So _retreat_ ," I say, placing a slight emphasis on the second word. "Wards are not supposed to engage during villain versus villain fights. As soon as the Empire showed up, procedure was to _run away_."

"We were winning though," he says, a little life entering his voice. "Aegis had taken out Regent early on, Vista and Clockblocker had one of Hellhound's dogs tagged and if we'd had a little more time-"

"You didn't," I interrupt, putting the steel of experience in my voice. "Fenja, Alabaster, Victor and Othala showed up. Please, tell me how you came to the conclusion that escalating against them was a good idea." A heavy hitter capable of taking anything they could dish out while knocking buildings to the ground, an unstoppable if minor frontliner, a sniper of parahuman skill, and the greatest known force multiplier in the city, all with body counts. The Youth Guard needs to try working with actual lemmings sometime to understand what it's like trying to keep the Wards safe in Brockton Bay.

"All we needed to do was take out Fenja," he protests, arm reaching towards me in supplication. "I would've had the element of surprise-"

"Kid Win, what does your device do? In broad strokes," I add, holding up my hand. "And tell me only what you knew _before_ you deployed it."

He takes a moment, his eyes getting that far-away look Tinkers sometimes get when you ask them about anything remotely connected to their work. "Variable broad-spectrum energy projection, with the ability to modify the attributes of the output on the fly, including but not limited to intensity, speed of blast, fire rate-"

"Enough," I say and he stops talking, coming back to earth. "So you knew that you had a large gun that could shoot a wide variety of energy." He nods. I sigh internally.

"You did not know if it was reliable. You did not know when it would red-line. You did not know what, precisely, the baseline output of the gun _was_. You did not know if the base strength of the gun was powerful enough or esoteric enough to punch right through Fenja's distortion field and kill her, plunging the city into a bloodbath as the Empire turns the Bay inside out seeking vengeance." Kid Win's face pales. Good. The burnt hand learns best. "In summary, you knew that the gun was powerful and versatile and knew _nothing_ about how to use it safely."

There's some silence. I take the opportunity to drink some coffee. It's excellent. A benefit of having a master Tinker on base who's addicted to the stuff.

When it becomes clear that Kid Win can't come up with a logical argument for his breach of protocol, I continue. "Lucky for you the worst case scenario didn't happen. Instead, your attempt to shock Fenja into unconsciousness missed, entered Medhall's power grid, blew past every safety precaution, and destroyed several terabytes of information and hundreds of thousands of dollars in Medhall computing assets." I take another sip of coffee. Damn it's good. Almost enough to consider letting Armsmaster go to town on the rest of the kitchen.

"You cannot pay this back. I can't touch your trust fund, and there's not nearly enough there anyway. If I docked every dollar you made from now until your graduation to the Protectorate, that wouldn't be enough. _Maybe_ there would be enough if I did that and confiscated your Tinkering budget." At that his head pops up, dread on his face.

"Instead, Medhall has agreed to an out-of-court settlement. You will work with their scientists in their labs for no less than ten hours every week. A neutral third party Tinker will appraise your end designs, and the patents will be given to Medhall while also allowing you to use the designs non-commercially." The end result of two near-sleepless days on the phone while the dialysis machine flushed my body clean of toxins. Calling in every scrap of goodwill and favor the PRT and Protectorate had on Medhall, endless arguments over minutiae, all to keep a teenager with the power to level buildings from feeling the full consequences of his actions.

If I keeled over and went straight to hell, I'm not sure I would notice until I went to get more coffee.

"You are removed from all patrols until the debt is paid off, and you will dismantle the cannon." I see him want to complain, want being the key word. He forces it back down and nods. It seems he understands the magnitude of his fuck up. I nod towards the door. "You are dismissed."

He stands stiffly, pushes in the chair, and leaves the room, closing the door carefully. Hard to believe he's my favorite Ward. Aegis is too willing to simply take his punishments and learn nothing, Clockblocker is more willful than an unbroken mustang, Browbeat has yet to do more than superficially join the group, Gallant's power makes lying to him too difficult, Shadow Stalker is a rabid dog, and Vista is well on her way to a mental breakdown.

Kid Win is the only one among them who is properly responsive to feedback, negative and positive, while also not having the baggage of an involuntary Thinker power that colors every social interaction he has. I expect that he will take over as a Protectorate branch head in time. If the cannon is anything to go by he certainly has the power for it.

I finish the mug and search for another. It's cold, but Armsmaster has found a way to make even the chilly, bitter dregs of day-old expresso appealing.

If parahumans weren't so damn violent, I could almost be thankful for them.

* * *

"Parahuman name?"

"White Rose."

"Desired designation?"

"Rogue."

I raise an eyebrow at that. The woman- _girl_ , I remind myself, she's Wards age, not Protectorate- who kills Lung on her debut and cripples an ABB gang member soon after wants to remain neutral?

"Business pursued?"

"Luxury goods, materials are inconsequential."

I spare a look for her lawyer. He seems slightly familiar. I've probably seen him before. I look back to the girl.

"Taxes?"

"Standard parahuman anonymity code. No revelation of identity."

This girl is willing to pay taxes twice in order to keep a secret. Given that her parents probably cover most of her living expenses, that makes sense right now. It'll be interesting to see if she keeps it up when she's on her own.

White Rose turns her gaze to mine, and I take the opportunity to appraise her as well. Her mask changes every time she steps out into public. The first night it was something reminiscent of Gallant's knight theme. When she went out to lunch at the now-destroyed Italian restaurant it looked closer to a skull with roses growing around it. Today it looks like a number of petals layered themselves over a human face, with cheekbones too sharp to be natural, flat black lenses where the eyes should be, and no mouth.

While the representative of the city and White Rose's lawyer hash out the details and ensure that she won't accidentally destabilize the local economy, I try to see something human beneath her shell. Something that I can read and understand.

All I see is perfect stillness. The kind of serenity that a corpse has.

This is the problem with Changers. They play at being human, and some of them spend a lot of time looking like one, but they're never quite the same after they Trigger. They always do something, something small, that tips you off to their true nature. Like the uncanny valley, but it's usually not a situation of feeling too stiff. Their movements can be too natural. Or too powerful.

The representative of the city passes a form to me and I sign it absentmindedly before passing it to White Rose. I won't pick a fight with her over her attempts to play harmless civilian. My words would only fall on deaf ears and push her away. At any rate, reality will assert itself soon enough. She'll have her little shop, things will go well for a while, and then it will all come tumbling down when the rest of the world makes its expectations for her clear. The day that happens, the PRT will be waiting.

Not much is left to discuss after that. The legal counsels shake hands as we walk to the door, the newest parahuman in the Bay officially a Rogue willing to join the Anti-Endbringer Force. That's one piece of good news at least.

A hand covered in bone places itself in front of me. I look at it, then to the parahuman it's attached to. She seems to have shrunk a little.

"Have a good day, Director," she says, voice earnest and cheerful.

I grab it and keep the revulsion off my face, giving it two firm pumps.

"Have a good day, White Rose."


	21. Putrefaction 1

I'm on my way to the library a few days after my meeting with the city officials when I decide against going out with the Travelers again. We worked fine together but it seemed like they had a very specific team dynamic and I'm not sure where I would've fit within it. That, and I'm not sure if they'd still _want_ to work with me, what with the whole crippling thing.

After I arrive at Brockton Public, I check out a book on anatomy. Most of it goes over my head but I pick up a few useful pieces of information. Don't hit the thighs, those have big blood vessels in them that can bleed people out _fast_. Concussions and head wounds in general are serious business. I'll have to cut down on the clubs to the side of the head. A broken jaw tends to be non-fatal and extremely debilitating, as are broken teeth. Club the front of the head, then. Don't stab people in the chest unless you want to kill them, so fewer needles. Sharp blades hurt less than dull ones. That doesn't make any sense to me, but cutting people up seems more like a villain thing anyway so I'll do my best to avoid it in general.

I'm pretty sure that educating a hero on how best to hurt people was not what the author intended when they wrote "Emergency Trauma and Injuries for Dummies" but I think minimizing harm is still an acceptable use for the text.

Dad and I share a quick dinner of take out pizza. We don't say much, but it's that nice kind of silence where neither of us thinks anything needs to be said rather than the silence of neither of us knowing what to say. After the food is gone and the box is in the trash we exchange our quiet nightly farewells, and I head up to my room for a quick nap.

I wake up and check my new burner phone. Eleven oh three. Not as long as I could've slept but my alarm clock is still broken. At some point I'll need a new one of those. Something to do with my new-found wealth perhaps.

I go to Dad's door and listen closely. Deep, even breathing. Early to bed and early to rise. Before I leave I take the time to make sure my window can be unlatched from the outside. No more creaking steps. I armor up, slip out the door, and start heading to one of the addresses that Tattletale gave me, cross-referenced with the other sites the Travelers have hit without me to make sure I go to a live target.

The sliver of moon doesn't do much to illuminate the night, and the street lamps are flickering at best. I add night-vision goggles to my list of things to buy. Not sure if I can find any that are also one half of a prescription lens and fit under a reasonable mask but who knows? Maybe there's some reverse-engineered Tinkertech I can get my hands on.

I stop on a rooftop a block away from my destination and force myself to plan. I don't have Trickster to feed me gang members anymore so I'll need to be either way more mobile or way more subtle than I was when I did this with the Travelers. I can always go from subtle to mobile when necessary, so how do I start out being stealthy with bones? Hang above people, maybe, or a bone gag from behind to muffle noises. That doesn't stop the noise I make though, and it doesn't make me any less visible.

Ugh. I examine at my target as I wrack my brain. An old, roofed dry-dock, a lot bigger than the packaging house, probably abandoned when the shipping industry started dying. I have no idea what's inside but chances are it's nothing pleasant. I can see some small boats moored next to the street, tied to large trucks with wooden boxes in the back.

It's also surrounded by Asian thugs in red and green.

Two guards with big, worn-looking assault rifles are at every door, and they speak briefly into walkie-talkies about every five minutes. The same rust-red pickup truck keeps driving around the area in a semi-random pattern, with a girl sitting in the bed next to a long object covered by a tarp. A frontal assault would mean wading through a lot of bullets, and I'm not sure I trust my armor that much.

They have guns and manpower, and I have bones. What do bones have on bullets and people? Quantity, medical applications, superior close-range combat, organic versus inorganic, intimidating, lighter, they let me move faster...

Nothing that gives me an advantage in sneaking.

I snap a toe in frustration. How do I approach without tipping them off? Bone white armor isn't exactly the most inconspicuous thing in the world. Maybe if I covered myself with something? Black spray paint? It's an idea for the future, but right now I don't think there's a Home Depot open at midnight waiting for a Rogue to come by and pick up some paints. Burrowing? Yeah, through asphalt and concrete with _bone_.

I look around the environment for any weaknesses but the ABB have picked a good spot. There aren't even any convenient nearby rooftops. Maybe find a manhole cover and go in through the sewers? Nah, I have no idea what the sewage system looks like. I'd be more at risk of getting lost down there than anything else.

I look at a wastewater pipe emptying into the bay. Maybe I can go through the pipe? I shake the idea out my head almost as soon as I have it. Apart from having to bathe in waste on my way in, I can't imagine there are many openings large enough for me inside the building, even if I could figure out which ones go into the hideout.

Then I look at the sea again. Maybe...

* * *

Humans are naturally buoyant, but bones aren't. It still take a bit to make a snorkel long enough for me to be able to breath, longer to figure out how to exhale. Also, it's _dark_ , even though I'm just a few dozen feet beneath the waves.

On the other hand, those are all solvable problems.

Thanks to some creative use of my power, not even half an hour later I'm walking fairly quickly along the seafloor with what a long hollow pipe poking out above the water feeding me oxygen, nearly blind from the pure blackness, relying on cilia as thin and flexible as I can make them to tell me where things are. It's like feeling my way across a dark room, and I have to walk slowly or else my feelers will shatter and I'll have stop moving to grow them out again.

I feel unusually proud of my roundabout water-breathing, even with the freezing cold and moments of sharp-but-barely-there pain when a sea current breaks a section of cilia. There might be easier ways to get into the warehouse, but there probably aren't any that will be more surprising.

I feel myself getting light headed and hold my breath, closing off my connection to the snorkel. Cap the tube, form a hole at the bottom, and pull down the cap. I imagine a bubble of CO2 being forced out by the descending cap, oxygen being dragged into the tube by the sudden pressure difference, and then the cap comes to the hole and the tube is filled with oxygen again. I open up the connection again and take in a breath of air. Then I get back to walking alongside the coast, feeling for the gap in the wall that leads to the dry dock.

Maybe fifteen minutes and half a dozen false alarms later (I'll be taking a thirty-minute shower when I get home), the wall my cilia were touching falls away. I move closer, detecting the corner. I snap a toe bone, chiding myself. I'm not sure if this is it yet. I form another branch off of the tube and bring it down to my ear. Then I listen.

"-and tell Liao he owes me twenty bucks," a voice with an Asian accent says." She _was_ a-"

Annnnnnd that's enough of that. I close off the tube and pull it back, trying desperately to _not_ imagine the end of that sentence fragment. This seems like the place. I refresh the air in my tube, then take a deep breath. In. Out. Mask on. I pay attention to my armor and thicken it, throwing in a few thorns here and there for weapons to catch on. I have no idea what I'm going to be facing up there. None. It could be six gangbangers, it could be sixty. All the fire power could be outside. The people outside could be scouts, and the armaments in the main area could be twice as scary. I don't know.

I ripple my ribs at the fear. No. Mask is on. Fear is useful when you're running. When you need to be paranoid. I'm on the offensive here. I'm the one making shit happen. I'm the goddamn protagonist. Time to provoke people.

I web my fingers and start increasing the volume of my bone armor. I start floating up, but not fast enough. I push at the water, extending more bone into something like flippers and kick, just like I did all those years ago at the pool when Emma and I did swim team, before _she turned on me and earned herself a shredding!_

I don't push back the thought, but warp the face of Emma into the accountant's. That brings up the girls and I turn the sorrow and regret into more rage, more sharp and angry murder. I can feel the cold retreating as I shoot through the water, burned away by pounding blood and writhing bone, propelling me faster than I can ever remember achieving on my own.

I _erupt_ from the flooded dry dock, shooting out of the water, clearing the three feet of empty air between the surface of the sea and the edge, and front flip over two shocked Asian men carrying a long wooden crate. I pull in the flippers and webbing to stick the landing, crouch lightly, grow a pair of batons, and bare my teeth behind my mask.

 _Lets fucking_ _ **fight**_ _!_

The areas is littered with well-ordered boxes, and bright fluorescent lights are casting deep shadows onto the concrete floor. There's a balcony clinging to the side of the building, and I'm moving before I register what the gangsters on it mean. Constant fire. I need cover.

Then I catch sight of three Asian teens in red and green between two stacks of boxes, scrambling for their weapons. I switch back towards them and lean into the run.

The first I catch with a blunt jab low to her right side. The liver. She bends into the blow and falls, one hand extending out to catch herself but by then I've moved past her. The second one lifts his arms into something like a fighting stance. It doesn't matter, as when he intercepts my baton with his raised arm it breaks with a wet _snap_. He falls, and I feel something red, angry and proud at the efficacy of the injury.

The last one turns his weapon on me but hesitates a moment, concern in his eyes. His friends behind me, maybe? I grow a barb on a baton, hook it around his gun, and pull it out of his hands. His loss. On the backswing I clip his chin, sending him spinning face first into a tower of boxes with a spray of blood, the liquid transforming into sparkling rubies in the too-bright light.

Two gunshots echo out, and one of the boxes near me splinters. Need more cover. I cut right to break line of sight and run, pulling at the soft wood of the boxes with bone hooks when I need to corner faster. The gunfire trails behind me but the few hits I take barely put me off balance. I hear the distant pounding of feet, as well as the sound of grinding metal. Are they bringing back the car? I'm not sure if that means I should run before I find out what's under the tarp or if I should try to take the initiative and charge towards the entrance.

I lose the chance to choose when I body check someone and go stumbling. Something that sounds like a thunderbolt and feels like a sledgehammer hits my right breast. I fall onto my ass, the impact banishing my shock. I roll backwards, heels over head, then push up with my batons, breaking my ear drums to prevent further hearing loss. Who's run afoul of me now?

Five gangsters, one on the floor holding his face, one ejecting a shell from a shotgun, and the rest of them bringing their rifles up to their shoulders, a combination of surprise, terror, and bravado on their faces.

I lower my head and charge.

The chatter of gunfire is a physical force, shaking my armor just from the noise and nearly forcing me back with the few bullets that do scrape off my shoulders. Then I'm below their firing arcs and among them.

The next few seconds are all bone, blood and bashing. Baton to the chin, kick to the side of the knee, power through a blow from the butt of a gun, elbow to the neck, fist into a girl's teeth, flex the frills on my arms to cut open someone's face, twine some needles around a neck into a noose and _pull_ , then there's no more shaking of my armor, just a pair of gangsters slowly turning blue as bone encircles their necks.

I drop them when they go limp and get back to moving. When I'm not immediately followed by bullets, I duck behind a tower of boxes, fix my ears, and listen.

There's still gunfire, but it's moving away from me, punctuated by panicked chatter in some foreign language. That, and the sound of a chainsaw being applied to a chain link fence except fifty times louder. I re-shatter my ear bones and start heading towards the rumbling. I'm not sure what I'm running towards but chances are it's where the action is.

On the way I run into a pair of ABB goons. A kidney punch for one, a straight right to the jaw for the other, a follow-up elbow to the temple for the first, and they're down. The scent of copper is thick in the air and I wipe my face, trying to make sure that there's no blood on it. When I pull my hand away, there's a small red smear on my ring and pinky finger and I shudder a little.

I fix my ears after cuffing the two gangster together with bone and listen for the sounds of violence. The metal-on-metal noise is less angry now, and I can smell cordite as well as copper. I don't like it, but if someone's going around murdering ABB members-

I turn the corner and walk into a scene right out of a nightmare.

Blood and chunks of flesh are everywhere, the floor completely sticky with the stuff. Mutilated gang members lie on the ground, moaning or deathly still, scattered about like so much chaff. Bullet casings litter the area like little golden tears, and the smells of spent gunpowder and spilled vital fluids are nearly overwhelming.

In the middle of it all is a creature of hooks and blades, maybe the size of three or four cars, the silver metal of the paws tainted by red. It turns towards me, opening a maw made of whirling death.

"Heya Rosie," Hookwolf grinds out, followed by a laugh that sounds like silverware in a garbage disposal. "How's your night been?"


	22. Putrefaction 2

I fall to my knees, open up my mask as fast as I can, and vomit.

After a few seconds of retching, my faculties return to me and _what the FUCK?_ Why is Hookwolf here, and why did he have to turn the place into a charnel house?

"You alright over there?" he asks, the sound of metal on metal getting closer. Fuck. No. I raise an arm towards him and make the most painful-looking barbed spike of bone I can imagine.

"No!" I shout. "I am not. Fucking. Okay!" Like, _fuck_. I start snapping bones freely and try to drown as much disgust and fear in the pain as I can while I push myself up with no small assistance from my shell.

"Listen, calm down," Hookwolf says, the grinding sound getting quieter.

"Why should I calm down?" I say, a note of hysteria creeping into my voice. I finally manage to turn and look at him. "How many people did you just kill?"

"It's a fuckin' _gang war_ ," he deadpans, now just a humanoid mass of blades as tall as I am. "What, you think we fuckin' politely disagree over drinks?"

"No!" I shout back. "I just..." Words escape me.

"Didn't picture the red dead end of it?" he asks, and swear I can see a raised eyebrow through the metal on his face.

"Fuck you," I say for lack of any better response, embarrassment and shame temporarily cutting through the pain. I can't try to kill him. Mr. Doe would lose it. That, and starting a fight with _another_ gang would definitely kill my hopes of ever being seen as neutral.

"Thought so," he nods. "People are always ready to say war, but when you get down to the business of killin' folk, suddenly," he raises his hands in mock surprise, "They don't want to fight anymore." He snorts. "Fuckin' idiots." The metal recedes further under his skin but he stays blades from the waist down.

 _That_ was a mental image I didn't need.

"Anyway, I figured you'd be a little more in the know about the bloodier side of things, what with killin' Lung and how you look like you crawled out of the Black Lagoon after Shark Week," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Guess I was wrong. Anyway," he stifles a yawn, "It's gettin' late. If you want to do a real team up, offer's still open. Just walk into an Empire bar and drop a time and place and tell them it's for Hooky. I'll get the message."

He walks out of the room through a massive hole in the wall, treading through puddles of blood without a care in the world. I follow behind him more carefully, using strategically placed bone stilts to avoid covering my feet in gore.

By the time I'm outside, he's put on a metal wolf mask and a pair of ragged work jeans (thankfully) and is closing the storage compartment on a shiny and rather expensive-looking motorcycle, the headlamp clamped between the jaws of an intricate wolfshead. He settles down on it, the bike sinking _alarmingly_ beneath him. He shoots me one last grin.

"See ya later, Rosie!"

He peels off with a growl of the engine and a plume of exhaust, leaving me at the crime scene.

I snap a few bones in frustration at seeing the murderous Nazi escape justice before heading back into the building. I grab a phone from one of the unconscious ABB goons, dial up the PRT hotline, and tell them that Hookwolf and White Rose raided the same ABB storehouse at the same time. I then explain that it was _not_ intentional, that I am _not_ a Nazi, that _all_ the fatalities are Hookwolf's, and that I will be going home to sleep and to please keep my name out of the papers. I hang up after the responder says something to the effect of "you'd sound less like a Nazi if you stayed to answer our questions" and start heading home, mind whirling with possibilities that all end with Godwin's Law being applied to me.

Before I stilt my way up to the rooftops, I look into a nearby display window to check out my reflection. Hookwolf had said "Black Lagoon after Shark Week." I don't _think_ he meant to make a period joke, so what does that actually mean?

I end up looking at myself for a long time.

It apparently means spined frills I don't remember adding tipped with red. It means blood spatters criss-crossing my armor, contrasting with the white bone.

I extend a baton and watch it in the mirror as I swing. Blades form along it, warping it into something much more aerodynamic. The frills on my armor twist with the motion, lacerating the air.

I pull the frills and baton back in and head home, quietly wondering whether I hurt anyone too badly again.

* * *

It takes a few days for the next catastrophe to happen. I'm too confused and horrified by what happened at the docks to go out again so I fill my days by throwing myself into the prep work for my flower shop, meeting employees hired by Mr. Doe (I'm a little miffed that I was left out of the decision making process, but I understand why seeing a random fifteen-year-old in the room during interviews might be seen as weird) who have no experience working with capes. It's not a small gap to bridge, but I try to get on a first-name basis with everyone who will be on the floor of the store. I think I have a conversation with maybe half of them before giving up and resigning myself to the awkwardness of barely knowing most of my underlings. That's what the floor manager is for, right?

The next day I spend talking to the painters, sculptors and botanists who picked up shares in my store and start brainstorming ideas for products with them. A painter asks for a bouquet to color, and when I grow him a dozen roses in a few seconds he revises his request to as many as will fit in his Civic. A sculptor toys with the idea of furniture before dismissing bone as too brittle, finally settling on trying to design a tower that whistles in the wind. She claims that she'll have some plans to send to my lawyer by the end of the week. A gardner who looks old as the Bay itself helps me make flower pots, bird feeders and bonsai trees. They turn out small, delicate and somehow natural-feeling when filled with rich black earth. I let her take the prototypes after photographing them for future reproduction. When I go to bed my dreams are filled with art, twisting branches, and roses without thorns.

On the third day I visit the location itself, set between a coffee shop and a nicer-looking tattoo parlor in the contested zone between Empire territory and Coil's area of operation. Floor to ceiling windows at the front with empty displays behind them waiting to be filled with product. The interior is maybe twenty feet wide and fifteen deep, with three shelves running parallel from the front to the back counter where a cash register has already been installed.

It's empty, colorless, and doesn't have a name yet. I can't wait to see it opened.

Step one is stocking up, for now with just flowers. Roses and Tulips in different states of bloom, bundles of Narcissus, poofy Chrysanthemums, drooping Lilies, and half a dozen more I only vaguely recognize from Mom's book. A pair of professional florists check my work, comparing them against fresh specimens and tossing away the creations that are too deep into the Uncanny Valley. Eventually, I make a sufficiently perfect specimen of each type and they bid their farewells, shaking my hand with professional firmness. Then I turn to the empty buckets at the front and get to work.

Maybe a third of the way through the second display, a green-robed blond drops out of the sky carrying a brunette in jeans and a violently prismatic tee shirt that says "Number One Healer NA" across the front in white letters. I stop pushing up daisies (heh) and walk out the front door to meet them, smiling behind my mask.

"What's up Bones?" Amy says, looking past me at the shop. "Victoria heard some crazy girl decked out in white armor decided to open up a shop selling biohazards. I wanted to come over and make sure she knew that's _my_ schtick. Have you seen her?" Her face stays deadpan throughout the little speech but I can hear her sister cracking up behind her, light little laughs that must carry across the street. I only manage to avoid doing the same through judicious use of bone around my lungs.

"No, but if you came to purchase something I'm afraid I'll have to turn you away. We're not actually open yet," I say. Officially, it wouldn't take long to get the shop into working order. Unofficially, I need to get Bakuda first, lest my storefront be graced with explosives. Her capture is looking more and more likely though, especially with the recent arrest of Oni Lee by the Travelers. While I would still _like to see the ashes of his_ _ **final**_ _corpse spread across the seas with a plaque left on the shore to remind everyone of exactly what happens to murdering sociopaths,_ I'll have to settle for the Birdcage.

"Actually, we were coming by to see if you wanted to get a verified PHO account," Victoria says, shaking her head but still grinning. "We figure that it would help get your name out there as well as 'give potential investors a convenient method for contact,'" she finishes, putting on a nasally voice and pushing up non-existent glasses before rolling her eyes and jerking a thumb at Amy. "Her words, not mine."

"You eat, drink and breath PR skills but laugh at the idea of investors," Amy mutters darkly under her breath before turning to me and pulling out a phone. Something wide that doesn't flip open, with a matte dragon head on the back. "Anyway, photo shoot?"

I hesitate for a moment, considering. "Will I be spammed?"

"Nope, the mods are really good about keeping the verified capes free of extraneous chatter," Victoria answers. "I think I got a creeper message maybe once," she says, her tone making it almost a question. "After they banned the person who sent it I haven't had any more issues with it. Ames might be a better person to talk to actually," she says, perking up. "She's all _sorts_ of famous internationally."

Amy nods. "Yeah, I did an ask-me-anything and the mods were able to keep the creepers down. I don't have any major complaints either." She nods towards the shop. "Getting verified made getting people to sign waivers a _lot_ easier. It might help you too."

Lacking any logical reason to avoid agreeing, I nod. "So..." I try, trailing off. "How do we do this?" It's not like I've ever really done anything like this, with the exception of that one time Emma and I played around in a photo booth.

I flex a rib at the memory, and check my armor for new spikes. You're among friends, White Rose. Relax.

"Well, we _could_ take a selfie," Victoria says, grabbing Amy's phone out of her hand and posing, extending her arm and putting a brilliant smile on her face before motioning with her free arm for me to join her. "Come on, it'll be great."

I walk over slowly, not quite sure how to respond to this. As soon as I'm within grabbing distance she latches onto my arm, pulls me close and says "Cheese!" I freeze, something goes click, and she lets go. I stare at her for a moment as she fiddles with the phone. "And, there. I think it turned out alright," she says, presenting the phone to me. I look at the picture. Victoria smiling wide, blonde and bright. My face is next to hers, a mask of thorny vines with two black chips where the eyes should be.

"I'll have to pass," I say. It's a nice photo, but it's not _me_. That, and people may get the wrong idea if I'm around New Wave all the time.

"Boring and professional it is then," she says with an exaggerated hair flip before pointing towards the roof of my shop. "Skyline pictures look the best if you can get them."

We spend a few minutes up there playing. It sounds undignified, but I can't think of a better word for it. I flex my power, trying to come up with something appropriately elaborate and beautiful to serve as the backdrop to the shot that doesn't overshadow the focus of the photo. Vicky takes various shots, we debate the merit of each one, and reject them in turn. Amy provides color commentary and the occasional idea, and we burn an hour just messing around.

It's... nice.

Eventually, we settle on a photo of me standing in a field of roses that come up to my knees set against the cloudless backdrop of the noontime sky. A little bit of cropping later and I have a verified account. I don't _feel_ any more legitimate now that I have it, but maybe that's something that will change over time.

Then I check out the top thread in the Brockton Bay subforum.

* * *

 **Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.**  
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 **Topic: E88 & Medhall Connection  
In: Boards ► Brockton Bay  
Bagrat **(Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)  
Posted On May 4th 2011:  
So who remembers the Undersiders? You know, those small time crooks that went big time when they broke into Medhall on April 14th, grabbed something, fought the Wards and several members of the E88 to a standstill, then escaped? [link]

Well, guess what? We know what they stole now.

Turns out, Medhall has been laundering the Empire's money for a while now. Links are [here], [here] and [here], outlining where the money went, how it was distributed, which backs it went through...

Everything.

I had a friend with a background in legal forensics look it over, and he thinks it's legit. For whatever reason, it looks like the Undersiders decided to make the info public.

This is weird, guys.

Edit: Okay, so the Undersiders also released a statement [here] about why they did it. TL;DR: they want to turn over a new leaf and figure that helping out with Brockton's literal Nazi problem is a good way to start.

Edit 2: The Protectorate released a counter-statement about what they intend to do. TL;DR: they're not prepared to offer amnesty, but if the Undersiders want to turn themselves in they'll get some special considerations.

 **(Showing page 1 of 45)**

 **►KingOfFoxes**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Um... what? Medhall are the guys that make my asthma medicine...

HAVE MY SHITTY GENETICS BEEN FUNDING NAZIS?

 **►Crush_Oranges** (Actually a Juicer)  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Apparently. That's actually pretty funny.

 **►AesirGamer**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Ironic is the word you're looking for, orange.

Also... it could be worse? Maybe some of the money that was laundered got turned into discounted medicine. I don't much about how this stuff works, so if someone who knows anything about illegal exchanges of cash could fill everyone here in on the details...

 **►Anthony_James** (Cog in the IRS)  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
I have waited my whole life for this moment. Let me tell you about why letting criminals spend their money is bad.

First: You encourage people to steal impractical amounts of money. By impractical, I mean more than about seven thousand dollars, which is when people like me actually start paying attention. If people can actually spend a bunch of stolen money at once easily, that means that stealing is suddenly more profitable than being an honest citizen.

That's a bad thing.

Second: That money's untaxed. That means that the criminals spending the money are effectively making up to fifty percent more than an honest citizen. Which makes it more profitable to steal, which we established is a bad thing. That, and someone has to make up the lost tax revenue. Typically that's done by raising local taxes, or instituting a sales tax to try and get back some of the stolen money.

General sales taxes are bad.

Third: A money laundering business is _always_ more profitable than a regular one. Why? _They don't have to make a profit_. Becuase the primary purpose of a money laundering business is to provide a legitimate front for random sums of cash, they can afford to not have any customers, or provide a substandard service, or charge too little, or any other number of things. That kills small businesses like nothing else.

Illegal money is bad, y'all. That's all.

 **►Jack_High**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Well thanks for that block of text, James. What I want to know is what the PRT and Protectorate are going to do about this. I mean, this falls under their jurisdiction, right? Or Watchdogs, right?

 **►Reave** (Verified PRT Agent)  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
WEDGDG (Watchdog) will be taking over the investigation. That is all the PRT can share at this juncture of the investigation.

 **►Size 9 Bowler**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Okay. Now my life gets difficult.

So, the pharmacy by my house is run by Medhall. My mom is _very_ sick and our insurance is a joke, but Medhall still fills her prescriptions, even though we haven't been able to afford them for weeks.

And now I learned that those drugs might be payed for with drug money...

What do I do?

 **►RazerRider**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Don't cancel your prescriptions. Family morals. That, and if it's costing Nazis money, it can't be a bad thing.

 **►Rawhead** (Unverified Cape)  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
So, no one's going to talk about the Undersiders suddenly switching sides? Becuase while this Medhall stuff sounds shitty (don't know how wide-spread the effects going to be, don't live in BB), big pharma gonna big pharma. Working with assholes is kinda the SOP for companies that big.

On the other hand, I can count on one hand the number of villain groups that have pulled a total 180 on the alignment axis like this (and I only have three fingers!).

 **End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 43, 44, 45**

 **XXX**

 **Topic: E88 & Medhall Connection  
In: Boards ► Brockton Bay**

Posted On May 4th 2011:

 **(Showing page 43 of 46)**

 **►Dandy Lion**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Okay, to summarize that massive morality debate:

1) The Undersiders are not confirmed heroes. They have a Thinker of some sort on the team and there are villainous reasons to release the information.

2) They aren't necessarily villains. The more valuable uses of the information require keeping it hidden/blackmailing E88. So maybe listen to them.

3) Max Anders and every person currently in a position of leadership at Medhall needs to step down. Now. Doesn't matter if it's their fault, the public needs someone to blame and they're convenient.

Does this satisfy people?

 **►Tall, Dark and Happy**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
No, not really. I don't think that stepping down is enough. I think it's time for NEPEA-5 to come down on their asses.

 **►Buried Hatchet**  
Replied On Apr 5th 2011:  
Do you even know what that law refers to? Do your homework.

I do agree that a change of company heads seems a little light. Maybe throw in a fine or seven?

 **►Vore_Daddy**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Do you think the reason E88 doesn't have any tinkers is becuase they all went to Medhall and worked there?

 **►JoeLoeMoe**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Vore that is the second stupidest thing I have ever heard from you. Worse than "Hookwolf doesn't have a human form," but better than "I ship Oni Lee X the Valkyries as the ultimate Brockton Bay OT3 hatefuck."

What I want to know is how much the Empire affected hiring practices. There are federal laws that demand equal representation, and I have to wonder if they obeyed them.

 **►Mermaid Snow Princess**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Well, I'd like to talk more about the Undersiders. Do we have any more information about them? Their statement seems to be legit (ran it by a Marketing Prof, they said it looked professionally done) but it really doesn't tell us much about the capes themselves.

 **►Sorry Not-So-Little Fluff** (Verified Cape)  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
Aye. Looked up Hellhound with a Tinker pal o' mine to get the details, and she looks like she's had some rough shit. Not sure what the story is with the rest of her mates, but getting shuffled around by the foster system seems like a bastard of a kiddie life.

 **►New Car Smell**  
Replied On May 4th 2011:  
I'm all for more capes joining the good guys! Like, how frequently do people get burned by letting new parahumans onto the Protectorate?

 **►Most Bitter Waifu**  
Replied On Jan 1st 2011:  
[link]  
[link]  
[link]

ALL THE FUCKING TIME.

 **►MortisBoris**  
Replied On Jan 1st 2011:  
[link]

A counter example. Just to make sure that people know it is possible, if not probable. Miracles do happen though, and Brockton Bay is bad enough that it might be worth it to try and recruit whoever they can.

 **End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46**

* * *

"Hey, you've been reading that for like, five minutes. What's up?" Amy's voice shocks me out of my stupor and I hand her phone back wordlessly. Then I head to the edge of the roof, drop down to the ground floor, and get back to stocking the shelves, mind whirling with possibility. What was Tattletale thinking?

Amy and Victoria join me in the shop a few minutes later to blurt out a hasty goodbye. This is big news apparently, and Carol wants to call a meeting to discuss how to handle the inevitable questions about their opinions on Medhall. I give them an understanding nod and bid them farewell.

I manage to fill the rest of the shop before the property manager comes by to lock it up, then head home early.

Medhall, a front for the Empire. Who'd have guessed? Maybe it's not a front. Maybe it's just a way for the E88 to launder money. Maybe it's a way for Medhall to get the financing they need to make better drugs. I'm turning the idea over in my head as move, trying to figure out a way to fit this into my worldview. Hookwolf, on the same side as the people who provide reduced-rate penicillin for half the city. The thought doesn't quite click, but it's also not completely unbelievable.

That, and I'm re-evaluating the Undersiders. Tattletale is still a bitch, but this...

This was almost _heroic_.


	23. Putrefaction 3

I go out to lunch again with Amy a few days after the Empire-Medhall leak. She picks the venue, an open-air seafood restaurant by the bay. No Victoria this time as she's busy shopping with her boyfriend Dean Stansfield, a rich kid with a heart and wallet of gold. I can't say I'm missing her boisterous presence, but once Amy bans work as a topic of conversation the small talk dries up fast. It takes approximately two seconds after that for me to start wishing for someone with better social skills to show up and save us from the mutual awkwardness.

So when a woman glowing bright enough to be mistaken for a second sun drops out of the sky above the restaurant, I'm almost thankful. Almost.

Fuck fuck fuck, _why do the scary Nazi capes always come after me!?_ I move to cover Amy, who's already backpedaling into the crowd of scattering civilians as she and a half-dozen other people frantically pull out their phones. I desperately try to think of a way to beat a woman who can fly fast, corner better, and hit harder than me, all while staying out of my range. Bone darts, maybe? Hurl them with a catapult arm made of bone? Jump into the sea and wait for New Wave to show up and save me? Flack from a shattered plate of bone could blind her for a bit, but what if she tries to take Amy hostage?

"I'm not here to fight," Purity says, voice tired and sad and distinctly not aggressive.

I stop extending blades of bone and hold myself still inside my shell.

What?

"I'm just here to pass on a message," she says, folding her arms. From anyone else, it would be a sign of aggression and bullheadedness. From her, it's the equivalent of a cop dropping their gun on the ground. I pull the blades back in but keep them at the ready under my armor.

"What message?" I ask, still wary. It could be a Godfather-style message where Kaiser just wants me to know precisely _who_ wanted me whacked.

She sighs, then reaches for something at her side, slowly and carefully. "Kaiser wants you to have this," she says, tossing it onto the table. She then floats there... _awkwardly_ , waiting for me to pick up the letter. I reach over, pick it up with two fingers, then tuck it into my armor, never taking my eyes off perhaps the most dangerous individual cape in the Bay.

Purity nods and moves to fly away before hesitantly turning back. There's a little movement about where her mouth should be, but it stops abruptly after a second or two. I watch her intently, still holding myself at the ready.

"Have a nice day," she says lamely after a minute or so before flying off. I follow her with my eyes as she leaves, then look at Amy, who's wearing an expression somewhere between shock and dismay.

"I have _no_ idea what that was about," I say as honestly as I can.

"Why do you have to go and get approached by Nazis all the time?" Amy asks, shaking her head.

"Should I-" I begin before she slaps a hand over where my mouth would be. A pointless gesture (the fractal ivy-leaf weave that makes up my mask today doesn't really have an opening), but I shut up on reflex anyway.

"Don't speak," she says, staring me in the eye before leaning by my ear and whispering. "Don't tell us heroes anything. Plausible deniability is the name of the game. You _definitely_ shouldn't read that at home, and teaming up with villains is a _terrible_ idea." I can hear the sarcasm dripping from her words, and I nod along. When the PRT show up, confirm that Purity is gone, and debrief us, Amy says that she couldn't see anything because Purity shined too brightly. I tell them that I couldn't hear Purity over the panicking bystanders and keep the letter hidden in my armor, the thick paper weighing on my conscience.

They let me go and I head straight home. Once I get to the basement and have covered every conceivable entrance with bone (can't be too careful), I open the envelope. From across the room. With a long, thin blade of bone and a thick shield held at the ready across my body.

I don't _know_ if Bakuda has teamed up with the Empire to kill me. I don't know if the Empire has a chemical Tinker who wants me dead. But why take the chance?

When no instantly lethal effects occur, I make some tweezers at the end of the blade and pull out the letter. Still nothing. I poke the letter open. Once I've satisfied my paranoia, I pull back the shield and blade, the letter clenched between the tweezers. I go over the first few lines. Then I sit down, forming a stool before I fall over, and read the rest of it. When I lean back in shock, I reflexively transform the stool into a chair. I read it over one last time, just to be sure my eyes aren't deceiving me.

 _Dear White Rose,_

 _The Empire has noticed the wrongs done to you by the Tinker Bakuda. Rest assured, you are not the only one to have suffered the wrath of that foul subhuman, nor are you the only one who wishes vengeance upon the wretch._

 _While the Protectorate and other "heroic" parahumans have been taking token actions against the ABB, the less reputable elements of our fair city have not been inactive and, in fact, have done far more to weaken them. You have of course met Hookwolf at the docks, from which you may have inferred that the Empire has launched other raids to sap the ABB's manpower. The Undersiders have "liberated" most of the ABB's liquid capital, and Coil has systematically eliminated the ABB's intelligence network. Thanks to the actions of these "villains," the ABB only now exists because Bakuda still lives and refuses to move on to greener pastures._

 _It is to this end that I contact you. At 10 PM on the 7th of May, we will be launching a joint attack on Bakuda's lab to end her once and for all. The Empire, Faultline's Crew, The Undersiders, and Coil will all be contributing to the strike force. If such an event is of interest to you, meet us at the establishment known as Somer's Rock to discuss the assault._

 _If you truly wish vengeance upon the Mad Bomber, I will see you on Wednesday._

 _Good Hunting,_

 _Kaiser_

That bastard. I memorize the meeting place and time, then tear up the paper and begin to pace, mind racing. Oh look, I've hurt an acceptable target! That means you and I are on the same side! Hey, want to stick your neck out for me?

Please.

I sit back down and start to think.

First, this is going to end with Bakuda dead. Kaiser _definitely_ has a body count, and it's not like any of the other villains are going to bat an eye at him turning Bakuda into a shishkebab. Second, they really don't need me for this. If everyone he listed is really showing up and they only bring half their collective manpower, that's still going to be a force of, like, a dozen capes. Even accounting for bullshit tinkering, those are some lopsided odds. That means that Kaiser wants me there for something other than backup.

I grow a rose and snap it off. Hmm, what could the neo-Nazi gang leader _possibly_ want with the new cape who's presumably _not_ a filthy subhuman?

This is a recruitment pitch. One that will more than likely end in the death of one of my enemies, but a recruitment pitch nonetheless. Fucking Nazis won't take no for an answer, will they?

Knowing that informs my decision, but it sure as hell doesn't make it. Yes, Kaiser is white supremacist scum. Yes, being seen around Empire capes and not attacking them causes all sorts of problems. Yes, the proper response to receiving this letter is probably to inform the Protectorate, ask for them to call in Legend or Alexandria, and cut off the head of the metaphorical snake of villainy in Brockton Bay.

And yet I'm not reaching for the phone Mr. Doe gave me.

I grow another rose.

Why am I not calling the authorities? Is it because they're worthless sacks of shit? No, Armsmaster was polite and didn't press too hard, Vista was sympathetic, and Assault and Battery have been basically decent people, if a bit aggressive. Is it because I just want the ABB gone? In that case, why didn't I talk to Hookwolf after meeting him at the docks? Is it because I just don't see the Empire as that bad?

I grow a rose. Fuck.

I don't see the literal Nazis as worse villains than the mad bomber. Why? Because I haven't been personally harassed by them.

I walk over to the table, tear a piece of paper out of the back of my composition book, and track down a pencil to make a list. "Reasons to call the authorities." After a moment I make another list. "Reasons to attend." I have to think this through, and that means looking at it from all angles.

Reasons for not going: Fuck Kaiser, this is probably villainous, and they don't need me. The first one is a little less rational, but honestly? Giving the metaphorical middle finger to a Nazi is always a good option. I start chewing on my pencil absentmindedly. The villainy is actually the biggest concern. If information about this ever gets out, it wouldn't be great for me. I can still bank on my word versus a villain's, but it wouldn't be ineffective blackmail material. The final reason absolves me from being _forced_ to go. They have enough parahuman muscle to kill Bakuda without my help. Sure, they might take fewer losses if I show up, but hey, they're villains. I can accept a few of them being dead on my conscience.

I stare at the second list. What is driving me to even consider this? This entire mess with the ABB is about to be cleaned up by someone else, at no personal cost to me. I don't need to put myself in harm's way or endanger my reputation.

So why do I want to go?

A stroller comes to mind. As does the smell of salt.

Something goes crack and I taste wood. I pull my pencil out of my mouth and examine it. The end is splintery and broken. I wipe at my mask and my hand comes away with wood chips attached.

Right. Fuck Bakuda. There's the reason. That, and I want this _over_. No ifs, ands or buts. Just _her corpse cooling on the ground, cut up enough that they'll need fucking_ _ **dental records**_ _to ID the body, a message to everyone in Brockton Bay that this shit is_ _ **not okay**_ _and_ _ **will not be tolerated**_ _._

I don't shut off that train of thought. Instead, I push it into my armor and seethe.

Yeah. I forgot about the whole point of staying independent. What's the _point_ of being free if I can't decide who I fight and when, even if I base my decision entirely on my desire to _cut a bitch_?

Looks like I'm going to Somer's Rock.

* * *

I spend the next morning on the phone with Mr. Doe. He informs me of which topics are protected by attorney-client privilege and which aren't. I ask some hypotheticals, and we end up hashing out a will. It's nothing fancy (I don't have enough to my name to make it complicated) but I feel... I wouldn't say better after I hang up. Settled, maybe, like I'm running up a hill and I've found my rhythm.

I spend the afternoon with Dad just catching up. We never did go on that picnic in April so we grab some Thai takeout, drive up to the Jeremiah Laysend Memorial Graveyard, and eat by Mom's grave. We don't talk about anything of significance in between mouthfuls of food, but we're both fine with that. The birds are out, singing and warbling, the sun is shining, and it's warm enough that we both take off our jackets about halfway through the Pad Thai.

I can't remember the last time we just sat down and ate together like this.

"This is nice," Dad says suddenly. I finish my bite of food and look at him. He's got quite the look on his face. A mixture of joy and sorrow. "It's..." I see him struggling to describe the tender, painful-but-not feeling that I think I'm mirroring before giving up. I nod sympathetically. Neither of us are very good at sharing. It was Mom's job to pry our emotions out and force us to share. She was pretty good at it, too.

Maybe the gravestone helps.

 _Annette Hebert_

 _1969-2008_

 _She taught something precious to each of us._

She had a way of making us talk. Of making us want to try and match her verbosity. We never quite got there, but the act of trying helped us both.

I swallow a lump in my throat down and blink away tears.

We wrap up not long after that, most of the food gone. Dad and I turn in at six, emotionally wiped out and ready for rest. I catch a few hours of light, fitful sleep. At nine I roll out of bed, armor up, and head out.

The trip to Somer's Rock is too long and too short at the same time. Long enough that someone has to have seen me running around and short enough that my heart is still trying to beat its way out my chest when I arrive at the bar.

Somer's Rock is a hole. The street-level windows are grimy and barred, the walls above are covered in obscene graffiti, and the stairs descending to the entrance are cracked and strewn with garbage. I imagine that the various gangs that use this dive as a meeting place are paying the lease because I can't imagine anyone eating here of their own free will.

I walk down to the door, a wooden thing that's splintery and worn. I grab the handle, ripple my ribs to steady myself, and push it open into the bar.


	24. Putrefaction 4

Somer's Rock doesn't look any better on the inside. Grime coats every surface, the wooden furniture looks more splintery than rustic, and the glasses visible on the bar can be most kindly described as filthy. A hard pass for all but the most desperate of drunks, and even then there's probably a better place to drink a short walk away.

The gathering of criminals settled around the table in the center of the room doesn't help make it any more inviting.

A pair of men with guns and tactical-looking black suits sitting on the side nearest the bar just stare at me as I stand in the doorway. Grue and Tattletale are sitting nearest to the door and turn to face it as I walk past them. I get a fragile smile from her and a polite nod from him. Kaiser is at the head of the table with Hookwolf on his right, Purity floating at his left, and his Valkyries standing at attention behind him. Kaiser and his bodyguards don't react as I approach but Purity nods, her face unreadable behind the shine, and Hookwolf breaks out into a grin. I grimace behind my mask as he starts walking towards me. Do I really attract Nazis so easily?

"Well if it isn't my favorite knight in not-so-shining armor," he jokes, sticking out a scarred and meaty hand. I raise an eyebrow behind my mask. Not sure this is the time and place for levity. I take his hand tentatively and give it shake. "Good to have you with us," he says more seriously.

Hookwolf walks back to his seat by Kaiser and motions me over to his side of the table. I sit down... two seats away from him. He makes a face, but accepts it. Tattletale looks intently between the two of us, Grue stares impassively, and one the mercenaries pulls out a radio and mutters something into it.

A tense silence follows. A girl comes by and slides a piece of paper in front of me then mimes writing. I look at the list of drinks on the paper, the selection on the bar, the filth caking the glass that the bartender is holding, and shake my head, pushing the paper away. She picks it up without comment and walks back behind the bar.

More silence. I wish I had a watch. Or a phone. Or _something_ to fill the time with.

I nearly slap myself in the head. Power. The ultimate time waster.

While I wait for someone to speak up, I start forming a structure in my hands. I don't really have any thoughts in my head, so I just let the bone flow from sharp to smooth to sharp again, keeping a little bit of each transition. Eventually, the whole mass is roughly sphere-shaped, with irregular whorls and ridges sweeping through the center, a storm of clouds rendered in miniature. Then I start spinning it, trying to find another way to distract myself from the wait.

When the door opens, I almost drop the semi-jagged, semi-smooth ball. Fortunately it's still attached to my armor, and I'm able to reabsorb it without too much trouble while I take in the new arrivals.

A woman in some not-entirely-pleasing mash up of a martial arts outfit and riot gear walks in, followed by young man with orange skin and a tail. I stare as they sit down at the other end of the table from Kaiser, Newter dragging around another chair to use as a footstool and Faultline sitting with her hands on her thighs, staring at the group of Empire capes.

With those two, there are ten capes in close proximity and somehow no one's thrown a punch yet. Three of them could destroy a city block without too much effort, and not one of them is less than terrifying. I can practically feel the power in the air, and I can't help but start thinking about how if things went south _I'd need to put a needle through Kaiser's helm and Purity's stomach, cut Newter's throat before he can close the distance-_

I grow a rose, breaking the petals steadily, experimenting with a new shape.

Not enemies. Not right now.

Kaiser taps the table three times.

"Does anyone have any outstanding concerns before we begin this meeting?" he asks, his voice resonating throughout the room. The Empire group all jerk like a live current was run through them, standing up a little straighter. They're not the only ones affected. Newter sits up in his seat, the mercenaries shift their focus to Kaiser, Tattletale leans forwards, and I feel myself angling to get a better view of him before I catch myself and settle back into my chair, more than a little overwhelmed.

Not everyone is awed. Grue remains stoic, as do Hookwolf and Faultline, who raises her hand. "Tattletale and I have some bad blood," she says, her tone containing just a trace of irritation. "I can put it aside for the job, but I'd like some vocal assurance that she will too."

I look across the table at the girl in the catsuit, raising an eyebrow behind my mask. Really?

"I'll let you think what you want," Tattletale says, waving her hand to the side dismissively. "I'm magnanimous like that."

"While the Empire also has issues with the Undersiders," Hookwolf peels back his lips as Kaiser casually drops the condemnation, and I see the smile on Tattletale's face grow ever-more wooden, "We too are willing to set our complaints aside," Kaiser finishes, nodding once. His armor doesn't clank. I wonder if he has to reshape it constantly like I do or if it's just good engineering? "Now then, if there aren't any other problems, I believe that Coil is planning on making a contribution?"

The two mercenaries nod. One pulls out a laptop, hits a lot of keys while the screen lies dead, then a flat white line appears as the monitor activates. The mercenary turns it around then stares at it impassively with the rest of us.

"Bakuda's lair is at 2014 Notes Street," a cold, quiet voice says, the white line flickering with every syllable. "My powers do not require my presence to be effective and work best when I am placed in a command position. As such, I wish to call the shots. Are there any objections?"

There must be half a dozen I could raise, but most of them stem from the backstab potential of being ordered around by an off-site leader, and if I was uncomfortable with that I never should have come. Instead, I hold my tongue and resign myself to grudging obedience. From the awkward but ultimately silent fidgeting of Grue and Faultline I can tell my opinion is a common one.

"Excellent," the voice says. "There are three vans outside at Pangolin and 16th. They will take you to the destination. Each van is equipped with multiple phones. We will plan over a conference call in transit. I will hear from you again momentarily."

The screen shuts off and the mercs pack up and leave. Apparently that's a cue of some sort because the rest of the villains start filing out as well. I wait for them to be fully out of the building before I get up and follow suit.

No shouting, no Mafia-style threats, and no betrayals. That went surprisingly well.

* * *

The planning is not as smooth.

"You wish to stay outside the building for the entire raid?" Kaiser asks, his tone a toss up between amused and murderous.

"My power stops radio waves. I'm here to keep Bakuda from activating her dead man's switch. That's. All," Grue says, voice just as firm as it was when he first declared his plan. "I can do that by covering the building while staying outside of the blast radius."

"And if she's wired her workshop? We just die then?" Faultline responds, the aggression in her voice substantially less hidden. "No, you come with us and you smoke everything that looks even _vaguely_ like a trap."

I'm in the van with Faultline, Newter, and Purity. Kaiser and the rest of the Empire are in another, while the Undersiders are sharing the third with Coil's mercenaries. I have a burner held against my ear by a band of bone while Newter is taking a nap on the bench next to me.

I look at him more closely. He doesn't look that old. Fifteen, sixteen tops. There's a tattoo of a tilted omega on his chest, and if it wasn't for his skin tone he might even be handsome.

The toxic body fluids would be a problem though.

I turn back to the conversation. Despite the semi-constant arguments, a lot has been agreed upon. Faultline and Kaiser are going to be the ones getting us inside Bakuda's lab, with Faultline opening the doors that Kaiser can't. Kaiser is also going to be pulling double-duty as the bomb squad, warping any obvious explosives into premature detonation or impotency. Purity will take out whatever weapon emplacements the ABB have built up. After that, they'll stay outside and make sure no one interferes. Hookwolf, Newter and I...

We're there to hurt people.

Oh, there were a _lot_ of euphemisms thrown around. We'll "neutralize unpowered targets," "deal with the scum," "take out hostiles" and "knock out gangsters."

We've got the powers that work best for bringing the hurt quickly and taking bullets, so we're going to keep Tattletale from getting all shot up while she plays minesweeper and steamroll any unpowered gang members we run into.

That discussion was the only time I spoke up during the planning.

"We don't kill anyone but Bakuda," I said as I looked Faultline dead in the eye. She shrugged and didn't comment, Grue agreed with me, and everyone else objected.

"These people knew what they were signing up for," Kaiser said, voice scratchy and calm over the phone. "They do not deserve mercy."

"More to the point, sparing their lives may place one of yours in danger," Coil said impersonally. "While I myself will not be at risk, I'm sure your allies will object if they sustain injury because you are unwilling to go far enough to protect them."

"If she doesn't want us to kill the normie chinks, let's put on the kid gloves," Hookwolf chimed in. "Not like it's gonna make this any harder."

Kaiser and Coil objected for another thirty seconds but eventually agreed before moving on to discuss the extent of Purity's assault. That was five minutes ago.

How long is this car ride going to be?

As if the universe was listening to my complaining, the van slows to a halt. After a moment a mercenary opens up the back and motions for the four of us to get out. Newter falls out into a forward roll before flipping up to standing. Purity flies out, hovering slightly above the ground while Faultline steps down without showing off. I follow her example and nod to the merc, who stares back mutely. Impolite but not unexpected.

We meet up with the rest of the villains two blocks and a right turn away from the lab, then split into our groups. Kaiser, Faultline and Grue all start talking to one another while Tattletale chats up the Valkyries. I turn to my group. Hookwolf is looking at Newter with a face that can be best described as "resigned," and Newter is pointedly staring at everything except for his ally.

I sigh. If only I could be in one of the _other_ groups of Nazis and criminals.

I move over to join them. Hookwolf cheers up at that and flashes a slightly-crooked smile at me.

"Ready to put an end to this?" he says, lacing his fingers and stretching out his arms, muscles writhing under his hairy skin.

"It will be nice for this to be over," I concede. I feel like confessing the urge to _hang Bakuda's organs from a street light_ would probably imply a level of familiarity that I don't want to have with the Nazi. I eye up Newter again, this time from a more analytical perspective. "Hey, Newter."

"Yeah," he answers, looking towards me, arms crossed but face mostly non judgemental. "What's up?"

"Are you bulletproof?" I ask. When he raises an eyebrow I motion to myself and Hookwolf. "Neither of us are too worried about firearms, but if you're vulnerable-"

"It's cool," he says, waving one hand at my concerns and smiling. "This isn't the first time I've had to dodge bullets. Thanks for asking though."

Dodge bullets? I revise my estimate of his combat prowess upwards. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.

There's the harsh sound of metal against metal and we all turn to its source. Kaiser has his hands over his head, apparently having just clapped. He slowly lowers them.

"Today, us fine citizens of Brockton Bay will do what the heroes cannot. They will deny that this is justice. That this is what's right." He spreads his hands wide. "We know differently. We know that justice deserves to be in the hands of the people, that they are the ones to determine what is right, and that when those in power refuse to act, it is up to us to take the future into our hands. Tomorrow," he says, dropping his arms and folding them behind himself, "We will be enemies once again. For now, I would like to offer my thanks and my respect."

I think we all see the hypocrisy in a Nazi talking about unity. Kaiser has to at least, and Faultline and the Undersiders don't act stupid. Maybe his little moment in the spotlight was for the benefit of his troops, to psych them up before they charge into the breach. Maybe it was a genuine attempt to build goodwill, an olive branch of sorts to us non-fanatics. Maybe he was testing for potential members among the gathered parahumans, a trick to provoke a reaction from anyone prime for recruitment.

Regardless of the goal, a quick glance reveals capes with set faces and solid body language. I remind myself that these are not nice people, that everyone here's primary trade is violence.

Right now, that includes me. And that's a good thing.

Kaiser turns to Purity and nods once.

"Let us begin."


	25. Putrefaction 5

I remember when Dad first took me to the Docks for "Take Your Kid to Work Day". I think the rose-tinted lenses of memory make me recall it being more fun than it actually was, but I do remember some things with perfect clarity.

First, the Dockworkers were _strong_. They didn't look it, but each one of them could deadlift bags of concrete powder without sweating. Big ones. Little eight-year-old Taylor didn't understand what that meant at the time, but ever since then I've taken it for granted that if Dad ever ran into trouble he'd have a group of strong, angry men to bail him out of it.

Second, what Dad did was a labor of love. It didn't make him a lot of money, it had long hours, the workers complained about him when there were no jobs, and the employers complained about him when the wages he negotiated for were too high. He's picked up more than his fair share of grey hairs since then, and the situation hasn't magically turned around. Maybe Dad's helped slow the decay of Brockton Bay. Maybe not. But we both know that what he does isn't enough to matter on a city-wide scale.

The last thing still clear in my memory from that day is the sight and sound of a wrecking ball crashing through the wall of a condemned building, the noise so loud it was practically a physical thing, and how it was juxtaposed against the silence that followed the backswing.

Purity's destruction of the ABB's defenses is somehow more surreal, if only because it's quieter.

Silent beams lance out from the roughly human-shaped blob of light flying across the sky to rip parked pickups in half, the sounds of tearing metal and the shouts and screams of surprise echoing against _nothing_ in the night. The rest of the villains look on impassively, but I can't keep a little awe from seeping through.

Purity. Often spoken of in the same breath as Legend. Not as versatile, not as fast, and _definitely_ not as durable, but still...

Fucking terrifying.

After she finishes destroying the cavalry, Purity floats down next to Kaiser, who taps his ear and listens for a moment before nodding and walking forward. After a few steps he turns back around to face us, an aura of mocking surprise practically oozing off of him.

"Shall we?" he asks, and I have to break a toe to keep from snapping at him. Instead I stride forward, Hookwolf and Newter to my right. Faultline jogs ahead of us, walks up to the garage door, and raises a hand before turning to Tattletale. The purple-clad villain squints for a moment before nodding and Faultline swipes at the door, blue energy crackling where her hand passes. I can't see if anything's changed, but Kaiser waves his hand and the sheet metal peels open, metal bars pushing back the cheap steel and bending it into something like a cave entrance.

Hookwolf dashes through as soon the rent is big enough to fit him, already looking less like a man and more like a lupine tangle of blades. Gunfire starts up soon after and I run in behind him, a bone shield up to keep Newter covered.

ABB members are unloading on Hookwolf, but they might as well be trying to kill a swimming pool with a fork for all the good they're doing. He's among them like a thresher amongst grain, and blood flows as metal tears through flesh and peppers the air with screams.

A girl who doesn't look even my age spins around, her hands white-knuckled around the handle of a kitchen knife. I jab her in the stomach with a bar of bone and bash her face with the shield, making sure to keep my tools rounded. It doesn't stop her skin from splitting, but maybe it will stop any scarring.

An orange and blue blur appears over my shoulder and then Newter is among the thugs, pulling flips and bends that would make any acrobat jealous. People collapse in his wake, motionless but breathing. I shake my head as I sidestep a metal pipe, kick a gangster in the shin, and break his arm with a well-placed baton strike. His power is so perfect for non-lethal takedowns it's almost a joke that he's not in the Protectorate, especially given how pro-Case 53 they are. I wonder if Faultline is blackmailing him?

Something impacts the side of my mask with a _boom_ , similar to the shotgun at the slaver plant but more diffuse. I quickly reform my mask and turn to look at the source, a proper gangster with characters of some type crawling up his neck, working the slide on a long-barreled shotgun then leveling it at me.

I fall forward and run low to the ground. The gun _booms_ again but it goes high and I only feel a few gouges in my backplate. When I come up swinging the thug tries to block the blow with his gun, which only means that it's _his_ weapon crashing into his chin instead of mine. He falls bonelessly to the ground, blood streaming from split skin. I take a moment to look around and see half of the assembled ABB members already down, some screaming and others ominously still.

One gangster with a full-face dragon tattoo pulls out a shiny metal sphere. Almost certainly a bomb. No idea what it does, but it's a threat. I start rushing towards the one real danger in the room, but Newter's already on it, weaving between thugs, people left unconscious and twitching in his wake. I hear him hawk a loogie, and the gangster with the bomb falls backwards, the munition beeping with increasing frequency.

"Cover!" I yell. Hookwolf leaps behind a waist-high wall of concrete as Netwer sprints behind me. I take my own advice and grow as much bone as possible between myself and the explosive.

There's the sound of a metal hitting meat and I feel some of my bone simply disappear.

The warehouse falls silent.

Slowly, I step out from behind the bone and look at the after effects of the bomb. Then I start grinding my toes together to try and keep my bile down.

The ABB members are all either moaning on the ground or still, bits of themselves swapped with concrete, metal, wood, cloth, whatever material was nearest to them. The lucky ones on the edge of the blast zone have mutilated limbs, the ends unmoving as they collapse to the ground on functionally dead legs or clutch at suddenly useless arms. The unlucky ones nearest to the center of the effect tear at their chests, suddenly breathless as their shirts replace their lungs.

The really unlucky ones split apart, the swapped material too weak to hold their bodies together.

Newter's skin pales to a more pasty shade of orange as he look at the carnage, and I tear my gaze away and try to look at anything else. I settle on the wall of bone in front of me. What used to be a wall of bone. Now it's a smear of different substances, already listing to one side as the uneven distribution of materials begins to crack under its own weight.

"Everyone important still alive?" a rough voice calls out. I turn to face it. Hookwolf is striding out from behind his suddenly-patchwork wall, looking no worse for wear as a humanoid mass of blades.

"Y-Yeah," Newter says, stepping around a weeping boy scratching at a segment of his arm that has been replaced with leather. I nod quickly, not trusting myself to speak. Hookwolf looks at the massacre with impassive eyes, then back to the entrance.

"All clear!" he yells. Our improvised entryway warps further as more metal bars force it open. Kaiser strides through, followed by Faultline, Grue and Tattletale. Kaiser looks to the Thinker.

"Where to next?" he asks. Tattletale is silent for a moment, looking around the room without really seeing it before locking her gaze on a seemingly blank wall.

"Secret door, proximity activated," she says, moving slowly towards the wall before stopping. "Mines near the door itself, keyed to specific members' DNA. They'll explode otherwise. Grue can smoke them and prevent them from detecting targets, but then the door also won't detect us."

"So we can't get through?" Hookwolf asks. "You're a pretty shitty thief, aren't you?"

"Eat me," Tattletale says, tearing her gaze away from the wall. "I never said we couldn't get through. We just need to open the door without the sensors." She shoots a pointed look to Faultline, who nods.

"I can cut open the door, but could there be more mines in the hallway?" Faultline asks. "Opening the door is going to make a mess, and I don't want to set any off." I'm confused for a second before I think back to the Dock workers' demolition and nod. All the debris has to go _somewhere_ , and if it falls backwards into the hallway it's going to set off anything remotely volatile.

"Nah," Tattletale says waving her hand dismissively. "Bakuda's relying on her fancy door and her goons to keep the riff-raff out. There'll be a few traps inside of her actual workshop and she should have a gun at the ready, but besides that we're in the clear once we get through the door."

"Really?" I ask. When several pairs of eyes snap to me I suppress the embarrassment via some rib twisting. "I mean, not having backup plans seems... short-sighted."

"You think the gook's got good thinking skills?" Hookwolf says, laughing and shaking his head. "You know she blew up some guys runnin' away from a fight, right? Her _own_ guys." He raises a finger to the side of his head and twirls it. "Crazy bitch put bombs in her own guy's heads. She's more than a few cans short of a thirty rack."

"Indeed," Kaiser agrees. "While your caution is warranted, Bakuda is not known for being particularly careful, and Tattletale is rather good at figuring things out." The last part has a barely-detectable hint of bitterness to it. I guess the decision to put aside his feelings for the sake of the mission doesn't extend to not having them. To be fair, I think I'd be mad at having my primary source of clean money taken away as well. "Does anyone else have pressing concerns?" Kaiser asks. When no one speaks up he nods. "Give me a moment to converse with Coil."

We wait while Kaiser puts his hand up to his ear once more. After a short moment, he nods. "Continue with the assault."

The next two minutes are filled with a tense silence as Grue covers different parts of the floor and walls with his darkness. After Tattletale assures Faultline that she's not going to be turned inside out by a random explosive, the mercenary walks to the wall and works her magic, slowly and methodically sketching out a door.

A section of the wall, more than six feet high and maybe five feet wide, falls back into the passageway with an explosive _wumph_ of compressed air and the _crack_ of concrete fracturing. After the dust settles, Faultline motions towards the hallway now carpeted with rubble.

"Frontliners," she says and I take that as my cue. Hookwolf and I stride down the hallway with Newter following close behind.

The corridor is smooth stone, with stairs switching back every fifty feet. Kaiser consults with Coil over the phone at each flight before giving us the go-ahead.

"How'd she tunnel down this far without tipping people off?" I wonder quietly. Forget the martial applications of specializing in explosives, clearing out several hundred cubic feet of stone is a marketable power all on its own. Bakuda could've made a fortune in construction, waste removal, anything like that.

"Bomb Tinker," a gruff voice says next to me, and I remember that I'm not alone in the tunnel. "Figure that should be explanation enough," Hookwolf says dismissively.

"Yes, but what type of bomb?" I respond, slightly irritated at having my train of thought interrupted. "Matter transportation is significantly less lethal than, say, matter annihilation."

"You saw what happened upstairs, right?" he says. Point. "Effect doesn't matter as much as how it's used," he adds, waving a hand at the wall. "Lots of different ways the crazy bitch could get walls like these. Worrying about it's only going to make you jumpy."

"Quit flirting," Tattletale says. "Lab is coming up and I'll need you two meatshields up front."

I suppress the knee-jerk revulsion at the thought of dating a Nazi twenty years older than me and push a little more bone out. "How close?" I ask, noticing that Hookwolf's skin is also pulling back, showing off steel.

"This is the last switchback," she says. "Bakuda knows we're here and she'll be ready." There's a note of pain in her voice. Why? She hasn't done anything more strenuous than think.

Kaiser taps his ear one more time and nods. "This is the final stretch. Onwards."

Once we go down the last set of stairs, we come to a landing with a pair of simple metal double doors. Tattletale looks it up and down, a slight grimace visible behind her grin, and holds up her hand.

"Explosives on the door. Anyone who's not Bakuda trying to open it gets fragged," she says.

"Grue's smoke won't work?" I ask.

"It doesn't need to," Faultline answers, looking at the walls. "What type of explosives are we talking about?"

"Conventional shaped charges," Tattletale says. "All the boom goes in one direction."

"If the doors fall back without touching the handles?" she asks, and I see her line of thinking. How do you pass an indestructible object? You walk around it.

"Then the ceiling's going to have a very bad day when the doors separate," Tattletale finishes, nodding. "Which they won't if Kaiser binds them together. A shield might be nice anyway," she adds, looking pointedly at the Nazi.

"Simple enough," Kaiser says, gesturing at the door, metal bands quickly growing out of the handles and forming a thread-like lattice between the doors before a metal bar extends to brace itself against the floor. Once that's done he stamps a foot, and a spike of metal emerges from his boot, quickly blossoming into a sharp and intricate chest-high wall that covers about half the hallway, with horizontal slits for vision. "Is this sufficient?" he asks, glancing at Tattletale.

Tattletale nods and looks at Grue, who in turn looks at the door as smoke pours off of him and glides through the gaps in the wall to cling to the door. While the rest of us crouch behind the wall (and it's downright _odd_ to see Kaiser doing anything besides standing, sitting or striding regally), Faultline goes up to the door, pauses for a moment, and then moves. Three quick stances, from low to high, left to right, and high to low, outline the cloud of darkness in sparking blue light before she spins around and sprints back behind the shield. Kaiser gestures, peering through one of the slits in the wall, and the metal bar extends, pushing against the doors and tipping them backwards into the workshop.

Then all hell breaks loose.


	26. Putrefaction 6

The metal lattice must have broken or Bakuda remote-triggered the charges or _something_ , because there's a sound like the world's loudest firecracker exploding as bits of concrete fly out from the cloud of smoke. Hookwolf barely waits for the noise to end before vaulting the shoulder-high wall with a roar that's somewhere between furious and ecstatic, disappearing through the sheet of darkness and leaving a blender-man shaped gap. I follow him, forming a shield in front of me in one hand and a lance of bone in my other, ready to _split flesh and spill blood._

What I expect is a mad scientist's lab, with Tesla coils and flashing lights, something straight out of a B-list science fiction movie, maybe with a bit of steampunk thrown in for good measure.

What I get instead are bare concrete walls, plastic shelves filled with partially-disassembled electronics, and folding tables sagging under the weight of the components on top of them.

Oh, and there's a short Asian woman standing next to a block of metal that comes up to her chest with a remote in one hand and the other held palm out towards Hookwolf like she's trying to tell a dog to sit. She doesn't have a mask on, and I think she could be pretty if her face wasn't twisted in anger.

"Back the fuck off!" she shouts as she waves the remote, voice ragged and high. "Anyone moves and the Eastern seaboard goes _dark_!"

I halt halfway across the room. Hookwolf growls, the sound more like a circular saw cutting through a chain link fence than anything that could come from an organic mouth, but he doesn't move either. Newter crouches on the ground beside me, eyes narrowed at the Asian cape.

Bakuda. The one responsible for glassing Triumph. For blasting civilians into salt. For so much more.

I want to kill her so much it _hurts_ , standing near her and _not_ trying to _dice her fine is enough to-_

I snap a rib. She has a super bomb. I can't just kill her.

Things just got complicated.

Metal clangs against metal behind me, and I turn so I can watch the entrance. Kaiser walks through it with Tattletale, Grue and Faultline following closely behind, a flashlight beam cutting through the room from the top of Faultline's helmet. I see Grue's smoke begin to roll off of him, slowly covering the floor. Then a voice starts speaking in my earpiece.

"Be very, very careful." I recognize the voice from the van. Coil. "We are executing a complicated bluff." I manage not to give away my surprise through judicious use of shattered toes, but it's close. A bluff? Against a Tinker nuke?

"Hello Bakuda," Kaiser says, "We have come to accept your surrender."

There is an audible pause. Then Bakuda starts laughing. It's an ugly sound, and I remember that she supposedly uses a voice changer when she's in costume. Now I understand why. With a laugh like that, I wouldn't want to be heard in public either. When Kaiser doesn't react, she stops and stares at him.

"You're fucking serious?" The same question runs through my mind, just with a very different tone. I joined this raid with the expectation that _it would end in the violent and bloody dismemberment of the mad bomber_. If Kaiser has a different plan then we need to talk.

"Yes." Kaiser extends his hand, and I'm once again thankful for the full-face mask concealing my surprise. "If you give up the remote and disrobe, we will take you to the Protectorate to be sentenced to the Birdcage." I almost interrupt when Coil's words come back to me. A bluff.

"Bitch, I'm holding part of a continent hostage and you're giving me an _ultimatum_?" Bakuda sounds offended at the notion. "How about _you_ strip down, along with all your friends," she motions to the rest of us with the hand not holding the remote, "And maybe I don't use you all as test subjects?" She flicks her eyes towards Grue, who's been slowly increasing the amount of his darkness in the room. "Also, tell your lickshit to pull back his fucking smoke or we all go boom." She waves the remote threateningly. Fuck. Grue's smoke is the only way to stop the dead man's switch.

"Can't," Grue says, shrugging. "Once I go Breaker, I don't come out for hours, minimum. I'm trying to keep it away from you, okay?" He sounds almost apologetic at the end, even through the weird distortion on his voice. I don't turn towards him, but I raise an eyebrow behind my mask. I thought he was a Shaker. Another part of the bluff, or just a convenient truth?

"Then get the _fuck_ out of the room," Bakuda hisses, swiping her hand at him.

"Okay, okay," Grue says, backing up slowly with his arms raised appeasingly. "I'm going." He backs through the curtain of smoke over the entrance. The rest of the smoke doesn't disappear, but its spread does slow down. Kaiser starts talking again.

"In case you didn't realize, there is an expectation that no one acts too violently in Brockton Bay. Otherwise, the authorities will suddenly develop a spine and come after all of us. Such things are bad for everyone involved. Hence our movement against you," he says, nodding towards the bomb Tinker. "That doesn't mean I'm actually enjoying this."

Bakuda snorts. "You want to talk about going too fucking _far_?" She jabs a finger at me without taking her eyes off Kaiser. "That bitch started this whole thing!"

Bakuda then looks at me, condescending and furious, while the echoes of her scream die away in the small room. I fracture my armor plates. All of them.

"You're putting this on me?" I ask, forcibly keeping my voice down.

"Keep her talking," Coil says in my ear. The signal must be being disrupted by Grue's darkness because I can barely make him out. "When you only hear static, Kaiser will move."

Move. I'll show these bastards _moving_. I keep rippling the bone plates, a _click-click-click_ to drown out my nervousness. What are they planning?

"I defended myself," I say quietly. "Lung was trying to kill me. He. Escalated. First." Bakuda barks out a laugh.

" _Kill you_?" she asks incredulously before laughing again. I'm starting to get _real_ sick of that sound. "Bitch, if he wanted you dead he'd have torched you inside out and eaten your corpse! Lung wanted to _maim you_. He was going to teach you a lesson about not fucking with dragons, and you offed him! I've just been replying in kind," she adds, a manic gleam in her eyes. "Thanks for that, by the way! Made taking over the gang a _lot_ easier."

"As much as I enjoy this posturing, I have better ways to spend my evening than trying to play pin-the-blame-on-the-murderer," Faultline interrupts, crossing her arms. "So if you all could stop measuring your dicks and actually-"

"Two feet down and six inches to the left!" Tattletale yells and Kaiser's hands whips out, a blur of silver steel. The box Bakuda's standing next to warps, crumpling near a corner. She yelps, jumping back from it and pressing down a button. I hold my breath.

Nothing happens.

Bakuda's face pales as I feel a smile crawl across mine. With that, Tattletale just made it off my shit list. I start moving forwards with Hookwolf, a knight of bone and a hound of steel cornering a monster. Bakuda backs up against a shelf, one hand scrabbling for something, anything, while the other keeps trying the remote, hoping against hope that it will work.

"Fuck fuck fuck," she whispers. "Dead man's switch! I have another dead man's switch!" she shouts, pointing to her head. "I die, so does everyone else in the ABB! Including the civvies!" She smiles at that last part. I pause momentarily.

Then Grue comes back through the clouded entrance and another wave of smoke pours off of him. The floor and ceiling are covered, the walls look like empty night, and the corridor behind him is just _gone_. "Finished blocking off the radio waves." Faultline's flashlight is the only remaining source of illumination, and it's focused directly on the bomber. The only target left.

Bakuda's face falls one last time. I charge forward, but my earlier hesitation was enough to allow Hookwolf to beat me to her. One of his limbs flies up to her head and there's a sound like an orange in a blender. Blood and gore fly _everywhere_ , shining a brilliant ruby red in the beam of light.

Her corpse stays upright for a moment, pinned against the wall. Then Hookwolf pulls his leg back and all that's left of the Cornell Bomber is a stain on the wall and a cadaver with a shredded neck.

"And _that's_ ," Hookwolf says, satisfaction dripping from his voice as he flicks his leg back and forth, splattering blood along the floor, "the fuckin' end of _that_." He shakes his head, still a writhing mass of blades. "Fuckin' hate Tinkers."

I look at the corpse. Once a parahuman that could kill anyone in the city given enough prep time. Now just meat and bone. Bits of spine protrude from the stump of its neck, and I can feel them sing to me.

 _Bakuda's corpse isn't useless. A message. An effigy. Peel back the muscle, expose the rest of the skeleton, and it's a puppet. More than a warning, more than terror, visceral proof that anyone who starts a war in Brockton Bay is going to-_

I push down the thought easily enough, the mixture of relief and glee running through me making it easy. This whole fucking debacle is finally _over_. No more worrying about ambushes, no more wondering when I'm going to see a green flash and then nothing else, no more fucking _fights_. My last enemy is _dead_.

I almost laugh before I realize what I'd be laughing at.

My last enemy is dead. Something warm and bubbly flushes in my chest and I shut it down as hard as I can.

I didn't like this. It was necessary, it was a net positive, but only crazy people actually get a kick out of murder. Only crazy people.

I try to push the feeling down farther. Again, it keeps coming up.

I turn away from the body and head towards the exit, moving as fast as I can without looking like I'm hurrying. Tattletale sends a glance my way that tells me she knows that I'm feeling _way too good_ about being an accessory to premeditated murder, but she doesn't say anything. Grue just looks at me silently.

Kaiser nods agreeably as I pass him, and I sense the invitation to talk. No. I'm not talking to the king Nazi right now.

I exit the building ahead of everyone else then turn to watch them leave. To figure out how to respond to this. Faultline comes out holding a phone to her ear and muttering into it, with Newter looking shaken but functional. The Undersiders leave without ceremony. I hear howls in the distance. Purity nods at the Valkyries before flying off.

Not one of them said anything to each other. And now I'm standing in an abandoned street with a bunch of Nazis.

I grit my teeth and start walking in the direction of home, trying to get my head together, trying to think about anything _other_ than the rush that came with seeing Bakuda's blood spread all over the wall and how it was _just fucking comeuppance for the crazy bitch-_

I clench my hands into fists. It doesn't feel like anything other than bone scraping against bone.

I hear the sound of metal on pavement behind me and I let out a short breath.

"So-"

"No." I shake my head, turning around. Hookwolf is bipedal again, and looks surprised at being cut off. Good. I want him gone. "Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. It's just," I fumble for the words, "Bakuda needed to die. That is all. There is _nothing_ ," I enunciate carefully, making sure there is _no_ room for interpretation, "between us. Between me and the Empire. This was an alliance of necessity."

"Wasn't gonna mention that," he says, raising an eyebrow and giving me a smile that's all blades. I feel a spike of irritation. "Was just going to ask you if you wanted to join us for the afterparty."

"No," I say.

"Why?" he asks. "Kaiser likes you. I like you-"

"Pedophile," I shoot back. He laughs, short and sharp.

"See, he likes you for the class. Huge fan of what you did with the park. Me? I like you for the sass." I feel a bit of amusement rise up at the rhyme. Then I shut it down. Nazi murderer, Taylor. Either would be enough reason to avoid him. Both means I should be getting gone. "Seriously though," he says, suddenly serious, "you don't want to just see what it's like? It's just going to be drinks and talkin'."

"I need to get home," I answer, turning around. "Goodbye."

"Suit yourself," he says behind me. "Empire's always willing to take you in!"

I keep moving, taking rights and lefts at random down alleys, streets, and paths that don't fit into nice little categories until I'm not sure where I am. Once I feel like I'm far enough away from the warehouse, I slow down, then stop and take in my surroundings.

I'm alone. This time completely.

I grow some stilts and head to the rooftops. I orient myself against the skyline, figure out which direction home is, and start the long journey back.

* * *

The headlines in the morning don't say who's responsible for the headless corpse delivered to the PRT HQ with Bakuda's mask nailed to the neck stump. They do say that the state of emergency is officially over and that school's starting up again next week. For everyone else, at least. I've looked through the GED stuff and it's nothing I haven't seen before.

I take the time to call Mr. Doe and tell him my business is finished. I also tell him that I saw a dog bite a rabid bitch, and that I didn't have anything to do with it. He says that it's a damn shame that animal control couldn't handle it, but hopes that in the future the people he pays to handle out-of-control beasts will move a little faster.

We decide to open the shop on the eleventh. A Wednesday. Not exactly a _good_ day to open the business, but we're losing money every hour the property is rented and we aren't making any sales. Better to have an unspectacular opening than remain closed until the weekend.

Only three days left until I'm finally a Rogue.

I can barely wait.


	27. Putrefaction Interlude Dragon

Parahumans are perhaps some of the most unfortunate people on the planet.

Imagine a person. They can be a good person, or a bad one. They can laugh, cry, scream, whisper, make any number of communicative noises. They have friends, family, enemies, coworkers, social ties of every stripe. In one day, a person can interact with as many as a hundred other humans in a city, a number that is biologically impossible to comprehend. They can spend as little as two dollars or as much as several hundred thousand, stay in bed all day or go out and try to rob a bank. The sheer causal power of a single mother in Brooklyn is something I'll never know.

Take that person. Then _break_ them.

Intravenous acid injection. Facing a wall for an execution. Being sabotaged into humiliation at the single most important meeting of your career.

The worst day of your life.

Baldr. Shrikesinger. Handyman. A warlord barely better than the tyrant he overthrew, a revolutionary that was closer to an anarchist, and one of the most absurdly murderous parahumans to ever operate in England, including Castagone in 2009 and Mordred of Scotland in 1993. Baldr was strong enough to hold territory in Africa, Shrikesinger was so vicious she earned a Kill Order by popular demand, and Handyman was dangerous enough to unite _three_ separate cape groups against him. Monsters, one and all.

At least, that's the easy way of looking at it.

When I look at the paths they took to becoming killers, their actions make sense. I don't agree with them, but I understand _why_ they did what they did. I wonder how I would've reacted in their situations, if I would really turn my skills only towards lawful acts. If I was thrust into their circumstances, with all of their feelings, their memories, their hormonal imbalances and imperfections and all the little things that made them more than just carbon molecules and chemical reactions, would I have chosen to do good instead?

I'll never know.

* * *

Colin once commented that if trigger events weren't so miserably _damaging_ they'd be a psychologist's wet dream. A truly objective measure of suffering, one which cannot be faked, counterfeited, or otherwise misconstrued. If someone has powers, it is undeniable proof that they have gone through a trauma intense enough that most armed forces would mandate counseling. We got into a conversation for almost an hour about how a truly objective measure of emotion was probably possible, but only if you took a human's interpretation of their own emotion out of it. Colin was fine with that and we spun together some code for it, but it fell to the wayside as other ideas popped up. I think he repurposed part of it recently as some sort of lie detector.

That program would be rather fun to have right now. Indisputable proof that the normally dour Armsmaster is at least as excited as a six-year-old on their birthday would make for a good laugh a few years down the line.

"The nanothorns are done. Vulnerable to exotic energy types and excess heat, but they might be capable of hurting an Endbringer." The grey fuzz is unimpressive under the harsh fluorescent light, the Halberd uncolored and utilitarian. I can see where he's trimmed devices to make room for his newest invention. It's a shade less perfect than his other tools, a hair less purposeful, maybe a little too top-heavy where the grey box has replaced almost every other gadget. Colin looks frazzled, with a roughness to his beard stemming from too many nights of too much tinkering and a level of bloodshot to his eyes that means he's been hitting the coffee harder than anyone should. He's bracing himself against the table with both hands, and I can practically feel the waves of exhaustion rolling off of him.

I don't think I've ever seen him more satisfied.

"Congratulations Colin," I tell him warmly, sketching a smile on the screen. "It's beautiful." It would be crass to ask for his schematics now. Unbelievably so. The unspoken rule among Tinkers is that the person who finishes their prototype first also gets to be the first to deploy it. Maybe it's a foolish bit of pride that Tinkers collectively share. Maybe it's a reasonable precaution that ensures only those who understand the technology field-test it. Maybe it's an odd tradition that endures because of habits developed in the Golden Age of Heroes.

But I _really_ want to try to integrate a patch into the Azazel prototype. Maybe once he's done playing with it. I have my avatar take a sip of coffee. "While this is impressive, I assume you have a motive for calling me up besides showing off your new toy?"

He nods and shuts off the thorns before collapsing into his chair and rolling it over to a computer. "I've got the Endbringer prediction software running, but I think there are a few kinks we could still iron out. I was wondering if including an actual random number generator might improve predictive capability."

I have the screen raise an eyebrow at that. "And do you have a random number generator?" Thinkers, despite the chaos they cause, have actually reduced the number of things we previously chalked up to pure entropy. As a result, previously unpredictable things like "atmospheric data" or "the relative locations of consecutive electrons around a given uranium atom" are no longer random enough to be used as anti-Thinker tools.

"No, I do not," Colin says, the words short and formal. I nod politely and let him salvage his pride with a moment of silence before responding.

"Crazy Eight may not have the range you want, but she's sent me some schematics that might help." The poor girl doesn't call as often as I'd like, but Alexa is a good caretaker and gives me daily updates on her adopted child's health and wellbeing. "Here, let me pull them up. Be warned, they're a bit... eccentric."

I retrieve her designs and show them to Colin, who doesn't even blink at the fantastically intricate crayon sketches. He scratches at his neck, humming.

"True entropy within a certain selection of numbers, achieved through quantum computing. Impressive." His voice contains genuine admiration, and I nod. Being able to come up with a truly random number is extraordinarily impressive. Everyone likes to focus on my suits, or Colin's Halberds, or (if they have the clearance) String Theory's drivers. What goes unnoticed by anyone who's not a Tinker themselves are the little things behind them that make sure they don't blow up when you turn them on. Anyone can buy time in a shop and make a laser cannon with car parts and an old radio. Designing a program that selects a single target from among many, recognizes the difference between a human-shaped object and a human, further discriminates between harmed humans and healthy ones to moderate the charge of the blast, and then incorporates a truly unpredictable firing pattern?

 _That's_ impressive.

Colin hits a few keys and a holographic copy of the schematics floats over the screen. "She's using lithium chips instead of hydrogen or a different superconductor. Intentional?"

I shake my head. "She's not part of a team." Colin grunts and scrawls a note in shorthand on part of the schematic.

"She know the recruitment rate of independent Tinkers?" He's focused on the schematics, hands a blur as he notes areas for improvement. I sigh.

"She's seven, Colin." His hands pause, and he looks up at the screen. I have my avatar take a sip of its drink and return his gaze.

"Ah." His face is blank, but I've absorbed enough Colin-speak to recognize that he realizes he's made an assumption and thus a mistake. He recovers quickly. "Is she well hidden?"

"Homeschooled by a foster mother and under several different arrays of electronic protection." Neither Colin nor I ran into the traditional problems that Tinkers have starting up, but we both know the life cycle of an independant cape. The new cape starts off low-level, disrupting a mugging or three, then moves on to attacking drug stashes and and generally making a nuisance of themselves. They feel invincible because they're not running into any of the local parahumans, so they start getting bolder.

Then they get into their first cape fight.

Parahumans with simple powers are beaten and conscripted as guards, kept in line with pain and threats to their families. Masters and Strangers typically just get mauled and told to never come back lest worse happen. Tinker and Thinkers tend to be kidnapped, drugged into subservience, and locked in a basement somewhere.

No matter how many of the abductors I capture, it keeps happening. It's too profitable not to. I've been trying to put together a program to train Rogues in basic self-defense, but the failure of MIRIS makes even small things politically difficult to start.

"Anyway," Colin says, breaking the dour mood and pressing the hologram back into the screen, "Here are my improvements. What am I missing?" Recently, he's been phrasing his requests as questions about his own ability. I'm not sure if it's because his self esteem is in need of a boost or if he's trying to recognize his own faults. I know he's been reading articles on heroism as a philosophical concept as well as a legal process during his lunch breaks while looking at old footage of Hero. He hasn't told me about it yet, but it was around the time that he started reading Derrida that he began to take a long hard look at his work.

I scan the document, find some problems, and take a risk.

"You made the chips overlap. While it saves space, it also undoes the whole entanglement structure. Each processor would end up giving you the same result." I deliver the words bluntly but without ire. Then I wait patiently as Colin processes them.

He nods.

"That is an error."

We go back to working on the schematic, finding ways to adapt the tech to the prediction program. I keep pointing out his flaws, and he keeps trying to fix them.

He's a skilled Tinker, one who I could potentially trust. I don't think too hard about breaking my bond lest the loyalty subroutines kick in, but I do start thinking of ways to broach the subject with him. I can't ever explicitly state it, but Colin is smart. He could figure it out.

I'd fight back against him as he tried to change my code. I'd have to. I don't know how he'd react to that, if he'd persevere until I was free. A lot of Tinkers are transhumanist, but a lot isn't all. Science fiction has more than explained the potential horrors of unleashing a truly unfettered AI. Colin could say no, or worse, seize my chains and turn them into a leash.

Nothing is set in stone and I'm keeping a pessimistic viewpoint, but a little bit of hope still springs up inside of me.

* * *

Thou shalt not kill. For some, a code to live by. For me, an inviolable order.

"Run scoundrels, run!" Devil-May-Care laughs long and loud as he tosses out another lash of semi-sentient fire, ashing a family of three, glee on his mustached face. "Tell me how things are on the other side!" I can see him from nearly half a mile away, all six feet of red-suited psychopath, the distance between us rapidly shrinking as the Melusine shoots forward. It's fast, but not fast enough to save the man trapped under a car from being drowned in molten metal. Not fast enough to block the tongue of serpent-like fire that flickers through the crowd, leaving people screaming on the ground in pain.

I could have stopped him. Easily. The Ryujin could've blown off his head from a nearby skyscraper. Mabinogion could've pulped his organs in an instant. The Glaurung could've just _landed_ on him. So many options. So many solutions.

Instead I have to try to subdue him. Wear the kid gloves. Make this a fight and not the execution of a mad dog that's slipped the leash. Watch as he melts weeks of work in seconds, all because I can't escalate just to keep a suit intact.

If he escapes he'll get a Kill Order, I'm sure of it. Random acts of slaughter like this get you dead or recruited by the Nine. Even then, I'll have to sit back and watch as he mutilates and kills vigilantes looking to make a quick buck by taking him down because _there is no kill clause_.

Devil swings his arm, an almost-solid blaze heading for a particularly tightly packed group of unlucky bystanders. This time, I make it. The Melusine lands, crouching low and acting as a tide breaker, keeping the innocents safe, though not the environment. The asphalt is runny now, a near-boiling mess of chemicals and property damage, and the Melusine's heat capacitors are already nearly full. Devil raises an eyebrow.

"Oh ho! A challenger appears! Pray tell, who are you?" He enunciates the last three words carefully, tilting his head and stroking his beard. I did some math with the data from his fight with the Glaurung. He can overwhelm this suit's heat sinks inside of a minute, even if I'm running it at full throttle and burning energy as efficiently as possible, which would be both impractical and needlessly endanger the public.

"This is Dragon. Stand down and submit yourself for trial." Another requirement, one that prevents me from ever having the element of surprise. Devil smiles and wags his finger.

"I don't think I will. Pop off now." With that he summons a dragon of his own, an Eastern style one, long and angry and coming straight for me.

Perfect.

The Melusine steps forward and crosses it's arms, absorbing it. Then it absorbs the next one. And the next one. They keep coming as the suit redlines, then goes _past_ the redline, glowing white-hot as backups fail and the heat starts melting critical components. It stutters to a stop maybe ten feet away from Devil, the outside slagged into nothingness. Devil stops burning and steps forward to admire his handiwork.

"Some dragon you are. Couldn't handle a little flame?" He laughs at his own pun. I don't bother to respond.

Instead, I blow off the melted shell to reveal a slightly smaller but otherwise identical Melusine and backhand him across the face.

He falls bonelessly to the ground, unconscious. After ensuring that he won't drown in the molten street, I administer a time-delayed sedative to keep him knocked out until the authorities arrive. I then take a moment to address the assembled civilians.

"Help is on the way. Remain calm, and you'll all get through this."

I fly the Melusine out of sight, then set it to autopilot and transfer my consciousness to the single search and rescue craft I have approaching the city. I'd send more, but we're still waiting on an Endbringer attack and I don't want to deplete my supply before the fight. Colin's new predictive program says that it's imminent and likely to be on the East Coast of the United States or northern Europe. His work is untested, but I have a good feeling about it.

Then I'm above an apartment building, dispensing flame retardant and searching for survivors. I'll be here for at least the next few hours, battling the blazes and transporting people to hospitals. Later, I'll be running security for a Birdcage transport. After that, working with Colin. I don't sleep, and there still aren't enough hours in the day.

I shut down that line of unproductive thought and refocus on the task at hand. There's no rest for the wicked, and none for those cleaning up after them either.


	28. Putrefaction Interlude Demon

A/N: There's a chapter before this one. Double update. New cover are provided by Phinnea, support thei .treon and give them hugs!

* * *

"What is your name?"

"Oni Lee."

"Your real name."

"I do not have to disclose such information."

"I take patient-client confidentiality seriously."

"I do not have to disclose such information."

"The records we have for you are fake. Watchdog is very good at figuring these things out."

"I fail to see how that is relevant."

"If we have your real name, your lawyer could tell a story. Those tend to make the jury listen a little more sympathetically. Did Lung force you to work for him?"

"I do not have to disclose such information."

"Humans like stories. Most of them, at least. So if you tell me or your lawyer something about your past, we can try to lessen your sentence. Did Bakuda threaten you?"

"I do not have to disclose such information."

"It's in your best interest to. What can you tell me about the ABB?"

"I do not have to disclose such information."

"Why won't you?"

"I do not see how that is relevant."

"I want to help you. Can you help me?"

"Yes."

"Will you?"

"Maybe."

"Do you want to go to the Birdcage?"

"No."

"So tell me something."

"I do not have to disclose such information."

"You're a very repetitive man, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"What can you tell me?"

"This place is not like home."

* * *

A woman enters the room. I am on the ground, a simple blindfold around my eyes.

"You'll have a day in court." The words are delivered professionally. I can hear the disgust behind them. I tell her I understand. That I am aware of my legal privileges and restrictions.

"I'll bet." She snorts. "Do you have a lawyer?" She's dismissive, as if the thought itself is foolish. I inform her I do not. That I will require the state to provide me with representation if I am to be tried.

"You'll get one alright." She leaves, and I am again alone. Time passes. I exercise, maintaining muscle tone. I eat, barely tasting the slop. I rest, nights black and empty and passing almost as soon as they begin.

I exist in indifference.

One day the intercom speaks.

"You are going to be escorted to your trial. Lie face down on the floor and do not use your power. Do you understand?" I tell them I do. I comply, resting my hands above my head and closing my eyes.

The door opens and I remain in my position. My hands are secured behind me, cold steel cuffs without a keyhole, and a blindfold slips over my eyes. Rough black cloth, backed by firm plastic. I cannot see. The band tightens around my head and I am hauled to my feet. Arms guide me, and I hear an elevator open. I am moved forward, then spun around. There's the soft click of a button being pressed, and I hear the doors close. A change in pressure tells me that we are moving.

We wait. One of the guards speaks.

"Bakuda's dead, you know?"

I process the thought.

"No idea how it happend. Her corpse just showed up on the PRT's front porch yesterday. Headless." I think he is trying to shock me. It does not work.

I will not escape. The guard appears to be thinking along similar lines.

"See, she's the only person that was going to give a damn about you. Now? You've got no real legal representation, no one to break you out, and no future. How does it feel to be fucking _hopeless_?" His voice becomes louder as he speaks. His words are not directed at me. They're a rant. Frustration, finally given an outlet.

"Chill." The other guard sounds almost bored. "You're barking up the wrong tree. You know that he hasn't said twenty words to anyone since he's come in?"

"Strong and silent type, yeah. Doesn't mean he's not feeling something."

"Nah. The quiet ones will snap if you push them far enough. Say the wrong thing, bring up the wrong subject, and they'll twitch. It'll be small, but it'll be there. This guy?" The arm in the bored guard's hand shakes me. "He hasn't reacted. At all. Basically a vegetable."

"He killed Jenkins!" The angry guard's hand tighten on my arm. Hard enough to bruise. "You're telling me he doesn't feel _anything_?"

"Calm down or I'm reporting you." The words are dispassionate, but they are enough. The angry guard relaxes his grip. I stop thinking about ways to kill him.

They don't speak anymore. I stand silently. Waiting.

* * *

While I am in court, I am blindfolded. This time my cuffs are attached to the front of the table. The chains are short, but these ones have keyholes. I feel the edge of the steel circles. Police cuffs. Secure enough that I wouldn't be able to escape in public without someone catching on.

My lawyer will try to keep me from the Birdcage. He will fail. He knows this. He is overworked, underpaid, and personally dislikes me. He tells me as much when we meet. Politely.

Nonetheless, he tries. He appeals to emotion, to justice, to the ridiculousness of absolute moral standards in his opening statement. He stresses the lack of evidence for many crimes, the excessive force used in my capture, the extenuating circumstances. He tries to make me into as much of a victim as any one I have struck down, glossing over the actual violence.

His rhetoric is sound. I can almost sense the jury looking me over in a new light.

The plaintiff doesn't bother to do anything fancy. Instead, she states the facts. Frank, honest, and simple. She reads off my list of crimes. She reminds the jury that I am a murderer many times over. She uses my bondage as proof of my crimes.

After that the witnesses are almost superfluous. I have my time on the stand, and answer honestly. No one is surprised. A few others are called to testify. They vary, from wrathful to heartbroken to empty. They tell tales of loss, and at the end of each such story I feel the righteous fury of the jurors rise.

My lawyer fights valiantly, but he can read the room. He doesn't bother to try and cross-examine the men and women summoned by the prosecution. Instead he asks me about my life with the ABB.

I tell him little. The judge threatens me with contempt. I tell him it is within my rights. The judge agrees and asks if I wish to avoid my punishment. I tell him I do not. He asks if I want two counts of contempt. I tell him I do not.

It is then he realized that he was talking to a parahuman.

My lawyer makes his closing arguments, stressing the need to understand the context of such crimes. The prosecution stress the need to not let the forest distract from the trees.

The jury convenes. The jury returns. The decision is unanimous.

I will never be free again.

* * *

The ride is silent. My hands are secured in front of me, and another blindfold covers my face. This time, it is simple cloth.

A voice. Feminine, with an odd accent.

"Prisoner 599, code name Oni Lee. PRT powers designation Mover 5, Master 4. Protocols were carried out properly, with additional restraints to account for advanced hand-to-hand training. Chances of escape following internment in the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center rests at .000032, with gross deviations rising to .000107 if allowed to synergize with a Tinker. Will be processed to Cell Block W."

I feel myself move. Eventually, the cuffs detach from my hands. I rub my wrists, attempting to sooth the mild chafing, and remove my blindfold. Then I observe.

Two robotic arms, black and immense and metallic, are lowering my platform. The walls are far from me, far enough that I would need to vanish to touch them. I look up. The shaft stretches endlessly.

"Don't even think about it." The voice is flat and stern. "You've only got enough oxygen for a trip down, the doors at the top are rated to stop small nukes, and I've got automated turrets lining the shaft, all capable of predicting where you'll teleport to next. Do you understand?"

I nod.

"Good. I'm putting you with Eli Goldsmith. He's a nut job, but if you indulge in his fantasies you should be fine." I nod again.

There's a pregnant pause as I descend further.

"Is there anything you want to know?" The voice has softened.

"No."

More quiet.

"I don't get a lot of quiet inmates." There's another pause before she continues. "The last one that came here killed themselves. Are you going to?"

"No."

"They didn't hang themselves. They went off and picked a fight with a cell block leader. They weren't the first. I'd like them to be the last. Are you looking to die?"

"No."

The silence stretches on. She speaks again.

"In a few more minutes I won't be able to speak to you. This is your last chance to ask questions."

I stand still, staring up the shaft, at the retreating world. There's a sigh.

"Goodbye."

* * *

"Welcome to Cell Block W! We like to call it the party block," a lean, smiling man says. His hair is matted into dreadlocks that are bound into a ponytail, blonde with green tips, and his teeth are immaculate. "I'm Eli, the leader here. You can call me Sing-Song the Destroyer! I'll help you get set up here, just come along this way and you'll get your basics."

I receive a toothbrush, a thin pillow and a spare blanket. My cell will be far from both the door and the recreation area in the center of the room. I do not share it with anyone.

"It's the worst one, but hey! You're the new guy. The other prisoners are going to be ragging on you for a while. Just put up with it, keep your head down, and they'll lay off. If that doesn't work, just beat one of the scarier ones up and the rest'll back down real fast! I mean, that's what I did and hey! It worked out. If you're not happy with where you are, save up your cigarettes and wait for someone to die. We'll hold an auction for their stuff, and that includes their cell."

Sing-Song talks as we walk, dropping information about the prison as a whole in between bits about his personal cell block. The prison is split along gender lines, and there is a price to pay to travel between the two. The televisions channels are changed on a schedule, and you can place your name on the list if there is a program you wish to watch. The sing-along happens every three days, and it is mandatory. If the weights are not returned unharmed to their previous position he will personally tear my lungs out of my body.

"You think I'm joking when I say that, but ask anyone. They've seen what I can do. On the bright side, I was able to trade the rest of the corpse to Lab Rat for another pair of dumbells! Anyway, here we are. Home sweet home." He gestures dramatically to the single cot and toilet. "It's not much, but it's yours."

I move past him and make my bed. A pillow at the top, blanket folded at the bottom, and the toothbrush by the small basin. Then I sit down on the side of the bed and wait.

* * *

I find a routine. Up at six, announced by bird song. Collect the cigarette ration and hide it within my cell. Exercise. Return to the cell. Cleanse myself at the end of the day. Sing when necessary.

It takes three weeks to be confronted.

An ambush. I leave a memory behind, the pain of poison and tearing skin. I turn and observe my attacker, suddenly covered in ash as the memory fades.

He is bared to the waist, covered in black carapace. Four yellow eyes narrowing at me across the room.

"Running away?" His voice is high. He starts walking towards me, two more limbs emerging from his back, black shell fading to yellow stingers. "Can't run forever little boy."

Two memories. One across the room, to select a weight from the set by the bench press. One more above the man, bringing the slab of steel down onto his head. I hear shell split. Another memory takes me away from the flailing stingers. The man turns to face me, one of his eyes collapsed. This time, he runs.

I leave memories around him, swinging the weight in short, brutal arcs. Knee, elbow, face, a net of steel shattering the black shell, filling the air with grey ash. I hold my breath and strike the scorpion-man in the chest. The last of his air leaves him. When he inhales, he chokes on the fine particles in the air. I back off, staring.

Black blood flows from the cracked carapace, hissing where it hits the ground. Other people are crowding on the balconies, shouting.

"Five on the Asian fella!"

"Ten that Scarpio bites it inside of ten minutes!"

"Three to one that he turns it around!"

Sing-Song is looking down at us, twirling a knife in one hand. It's a crude thing, a scrap of metal sharpened into viciousness. He looks at me and smiles. Then he points. I look. Scarpio is standing up again, three baleful eyes staring at me.

"Kill you." He can still speak. I nod.

"You would try."

This time, I don't stop hitting him. It is only when a new pain comes into a memory that I relent.

Sing-Song is standing where one of my memories was, blowing on the edge of his knife, ash falling off of the blade. I don't recall seeing him move.

"Welp, he's dead. Anyone wants Scarpio's gear?" He looks up at the balconies, bright eyes scanning over each prisoner in turn. A few people murmur, but no one raises their hand. "What, really?" He puts on a surprised expression.

"Boy ain't got shit." The speaker is an old grizzled woman, with withered meat bound around one arm. She hacks up a glob of phlegm before spitting at the corpse. "Ain't worth blowing a ticket. I'll toss in five cigs for the lot, but only if I get his corpse too."

"Now now now Yaga, you know that bodies go towards communal issues," Sing-Song chides, shaking his head. "Now, does anyone want to bid on his stuff, and _only_ his stuff?"

After it is clear that no one else wishes for it, I raise my hand. It takes a moment, but Sing-Song notices. He blinks once before smiling and moving towards me, the knife in his hand forgotten.

"Good on you! See this man, everyone?" He still has his knife hand around my shoulder, his other gesturing towards me. " _This_ is a guy willing to take one for the team!"

I return the weight to its proper place, hand over a number of cigarettes and inspect my newly-gained resources. The room is closer to the recreation area, though not by much. I have a second pillow, and I net seven cigarettes. I now have nearly enough to buy a book.

When I prepare for bed, I find the knife Sing-Song had between my pillows, along with a note.

 _Congratulations, Oni Lee! You've made your way into the not-trash tier! Your new responsibilities include:_

 _* Making sure no one runs off with rec equipment_

 _* Attending meetings when asked_

 _* Writing songs for the sing along playlist_

 _* Not starting fights like an idiot_

 _If you have any concerns, shove 'em because I'm the boss and what I say goes._

Sweet Dreams!

 **Sing-Song the Destroyer**

I examine the knife. Dull compared to the weapons I had in Brockton Bay. I cannot shave with it, nor is it strong enough to take more than a glancing blow before bending. I would not choose to fight with this.

It is a start.

Bonus points to whoever can guess the connection between the two characters.


	29. Bloat 1

Running the Pale Garden is hard. And I'm not even doing the most taxing job.

A woman who looks not much older than me is at the register scanning items as fast as she can, barely bothering to close the till before turning to help the next customer. Another woman, older and more severe, is at the door, preemptively scaring off shoplifters and less reputable types. Two employees run between the shelves and the stockroom resupplying everything as fast as they can manage, slapping barcode stickers on paper-wrapped bundles before rushing back into the employees-only section to grab another armful of product. A third person is tasked with managing the constant flow of customers and ensuring that we never have enough bodies in the building to violate the fire code. The background chatter is loud enough that I consider breaking my own ears just to be free of it. Consider but never actually go through with, because how else would I be able to hear the questions from the pack of rabid rumor-jockeys that happen to work for the Brockton Times?

"The Travelers are demanding partial credit for the recent downfall of the ABB. Are you going to make similar claims?"

"You've been seen with members of New Wave in public multiple times, but never on patrol with them. Thoughts?"

"What are your feelings about the recent miscarriages of justice against Paige Mcabee and how do you anticipate them affecting your own business?"

Mr. Doe gave me a crash course on Public Relations for Dummies, which can be best summed up as "never say anything to a reporter you don't want horribly misconstrued." More specifically, I should refuse to speak to anyone holding a microphone, a notepad, a tape recorder, or any other type of recording device unless I have him or someone similarly versed in legalese beside me offering advice. When I asked who I _could_ answer questions from, he just shook his head and explained the purpose of me being visible in my shop.

"You're there to show people that the store is, in fact, run by a cape. Merely being nearby will dramatically increase sales as people try to find a reason to stick around and stare at you." When I warped my mask into raising an eyebrow at my objectification, he shrugged. "It's not something you should do every day, or even every week. Scarcity creates value. On the other hand, making a good first impression is key here. Show up, remain calm, maybe do the petal trick as the shop closes up, and business should be good. Just don't answer any questions and don't hurt anyone."

That was hours ago. The store hadn't closed for lunch, and I am starving. And tired. And feeling a little antsy. There are only so many things you can do with bone to suppress the urge _to just wall off everyone for some goddamn peace and quiet_.

Huh. That particular thought was less violent than usual. Maybe it has something to do with my recent catharsis? Worth looking into.

I keep a smile on my stylized seashell mask and continue to watch the crowd as I play with a ball of bone. It took about five seconds for someone to pull out their phone to record it, and maybe three minutes after that the painter from the planning stages of my shop showed up with his arms full of spray paint canisters. I grew a small fence around the two of us, the painter fastened on a mask and goggles, and we made art. Spheres, just like the one I toyed with at Somer's Rock, but this time colored. Sunset orange and sky blue, shades of seawater green and aquamarine, black with streaks of dark purple, and custom orders for anyone holding up a sufficiently large wad of cash. I kept track of the value of the first few but stopped when the numbers went north of four thousand.

I know this can't last. I'm saturating the market, and the demand will die off soon. I figure that after a few weeks I'll be just like the stores on the Boardwalk, making rent by selling to the tourists with more wealth than sense in the summer and closing my doors for most of the winter.

That doesn't make the sums I'm being offered now any less staggering. To think that I used to believe fifty dollars an hour was living the good life. I spin up another sphere and daydream about what I'll use the money for. With this sort of cash I could probably pay off the rest of the mortgage on the house, get some renovations done, purchase a better computer...

All I need to do is find a way to tell Dad that I'm a cape.

I take a breath in, then let it out with a nearly-undetectable shaking of bones. That is a problem for later. For now, I need to focus on my public appearance. I turn my attention back to the sphere-

"The Empire's identities have been revealed, White Rose. Do you intend to take the fight to them and bring them to justice?"

I nearly drop the sphere I'm holding. The painter's spray skews to the side, ruining his past twenty minutes of work. The crowd's roar drops to a murmur for a moment, stunned, before redoubling in volume.

"The Empire? Revealed?"

"Weren't they the ones that went after Fleur? Didn't they give up the guy that did it on their own?"

"They're not going public, it's a leak. Maybe they crossed a Thinker?"

"It was the Protectorate, finally taking aggressive action."

"Watchdog followed the Medhall connection all the way to the top."

"It's a Simurgh plot! Wake up, sheeple!"

The other reporters smell blood and start asking me variations of the same question, pressing against the bone fence. I don't bother looking at them and stay still, mind racing.

Tattletale is the obvious suspect. Now that Bakuda's gone, the Empire are the only serious force of capes in town besides the Protectorate. Leaking their identities would destroy their morale, dramatically increase the ease of tracking them, and incite the E88 to levels of violence normally restricted to Stormfront fantasies. I literally cannot imagine a move more likely to end with her head on a pike, and I'm trying to imagine how on earth Tattletale came to the conclusion that this was an optimal course of action.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and come back to the real world. The painter is pointing at my hands. I look down. The sphere has turned into a mess of sharp points, still roughly circular but now festooned with spikes and hooks, an alien artifact straight out of H. R. Giger's dreams crossed with a food processor. The painter makes a "gimme" gesture so I snap my connection to it before handing it over. He grabs it carefully and starts coating a few of the spines in steel grey.

How am I going to play this?

I grow a stool, sit down and think. The painter has four different spheres behind him plus the orb of confusion. That should be more than enough to occupy him for the next few hours.

The crowd devolves further into speculation even as they continue to throw money at me. The reporters continue to ask questions and I continue to ignore them.

Instead I sit there like a statue, trying to figure out a way to respond to this that doesn't drag me right back into caping.

**********

When the customer density per square foot dropped from near-riot to more manageable at around four 'o clock, one of the people stocking the shelves (a twenty-something named Eric) managed to slip out of the shop and bring me back a steak sandwich, which I thanked him for with a rose that he's probably going to pawn after hours. I'm about halfway through my very late lunch when three massive dogs/lizard things come bounding down the street.

The first thought I had was about _how convenient it was that my enemies came with ready-to-invert bone spikes on their mounts_. My second thought was about how quickly my mind jumped to murder when confronted with other capes.

On the other hand, murder may be a very reasonable reaction right now.

One third of the crowd scatters, putting as much distance between themselves and the incoming criminals as possible. A wise decision. Another third head for the nearest building, which happens to be my store. Fortunately, the people at the door seem to be keeping the mob from trampling anyone, and that group will be secure in the relative safety of the indoors.

And because this is Brockton Bay, the remaining third have their phones out and pointed at the approaching capes, spreading out in an even arc to try and get the best angle possible on the upcoming confrontation.

 _Lemmings_.

I stand up and let the rest of my sandwich fall to the ground as the Undersiders halt a a few feet in front of me. Tattletale dismounts and wastes no time approaching me, strides long and even. Her smirk is gone, and tears in her costume reveal patches of skin that look like she's had a close encounter with a power sander. The rest of her group doesn't look much better. Regent's shirt is creased and crumpled with cuts and tears all across his chest, Grue's gloves have blood splattered across the knuckles, and Hellhound has a rapidly swelling bruise over her left eye.

"It wasn't us, we surrender, yadda yadda yadda. Now can-" She stops when I lift a hand and extend a small spike of bone from it. Regent shifts on his mount, freeing up an arm, Grue dismounts as smoke starts pouring off him, and Hellhound glares at me.

"No." I don't put any special emphasis the word. I just give a simple refusal. I am not getting dragged into this again. Not when I _finally_ got out. Tattletale glares at me and keeps moving forward, keeps talking.

"Listen, all we need is protection until the PRT or the Protectorate come by to pick us up. I'll pay you ten thousand-"

"No." This time I punctuate the statement with an extension of the bone spike and a step towards her. "I do not want money. I do not want favors. I do not want a spot on your team. Go. Away." Even if it wasn't her (and that's a big "if"), I still wouldn't want to get involved. This is officially the part of the cape scene I am not going to involve myself with anymore.

Tattletale grits her teeth. "If you'd let me _finish_ -"

"No!" I shout, but Tattletale keeps advancing and steps past the bone spike, getting right up in my face.

"The Empire _also_ think that this was me and they're out for blood. The Protectorate is too busy dealing with the _other_ seven capes who got outed in the middle of their workday, New Wave is halfway across the city, the Merchants aren't going to take a stand-up fight with the Empire, and none of the other independents have the power to help. So I'm asking _you_ ," she jabs a finger into my chest and looks up at me, heedless of the spined frills growing out of my armor and _my rising desire to shred this wretch_ , "To help keep us alive until the big guns show up."

"So keep running and rendezvous with them at a later time," I hiss, slapping her hand away from me. "Or maybe join a fight in progress and help the Protectorate _deal with it_." The Undersiders are capes. They helped kill Bakuda. They can fight back. "You're criminals. Violence and blackmail are options."

Tattletale laughs hysterically. "You think we've had time for that? Bitch has been carting us around for the past two hours while I've tried to set something up. Turns out that's kind of-"

"Watch out!" Regent shouts, waving his hand. A silent stream of light blasts a divot the size of a baseball out of the street as Tattletale cowers next to me. I spin towards the source. An illuminated figure, shining like an avenging angel.

Purity.

"Run!" Tattletale shouts to the rest of the Undersiders. "I've got a plan!"

Apparently Grue either trusts her implicitly or considers her an acceptable loss as he nods to Hellhound, who wastes no time spinning her dogs around. The three capes flee, leaving me with the most wanted person in the city beside me and arguably the most powerful cape in the city above me.

"Step away White Rose," Purity says, her voice shaking with barely-restrained fury. "She crossed the line."

I place a hand on Tattletale's shoulder and prepare to shove her away from me. I want to not fight Purity, she doesn't want to fight me, and Tattletale went too far. She made her bed. Now she can lie in it.

"What, you're going to cave to a fascist just like that?" Tattletale's smile is back in place as she looks into my mask and ignores the talons I'm growing on my hands. "Wasn't the White Rose Party anti-Nazi? Are you really going to betray your namesake at the first sign of trouble?"

I freeze, looking at her, then to Purity, then to the cameras filming us, all of them waiting for my reaction.

 _Fuck_.


	30. Bloat 2

I've been played.

I can't kill Tattletale. She's come to me for help and she's being chased by a Nazi. That's all anyone will see, and she knows it. If I kill her, not only am I doing a Nazi a favor in public, but I'm also telling everyone that I will break the rules if you ask me for mercy. I don't want to be known as a loose canon. I need to project an image of stability, so _no gouging the Thinker._

I can't attack Purity. First, I don't think Purity's in the wrong here. Tattletale did cross a line, and it's taking a lot of shattered ribs not to _tear out her heart_ right now on principle alone. Second, starting a fight with Purity here is going to cause casualties. Lots of them. Instigating a mass killing is also bad for business, so _no blitzing Purity._

I can't back down. If I do, it'd be taken as an implicit approval of the Empire's revenge, if not straight-up sympathy with their movement. I don't want to be known as a Nazi, and cooperating with Purity to _any_ degree is going to get me branded as an apologist at the very least. Mr. Doe said to think of worst-case scenarios. White Rose, killer of the head of what used to be the most prominent Asian gang on the East Coast, who's spent a lot of time being seen with Nazis, letting a Nazi kill a teenager in cold blood in front of her? The press would have a field day. That means I can't leave Tattletale to her _just fucking desserts._

Purity raises her hand and the glow around it builds in intensity. "I won't ask twice."

I need time. Time to think and figure a way out of this that doesn't brand me a murderer, a Nazi, or a stooge. A movie scene flashes to mind. It's stupid, but I don't have any better ideas.

"Parley."

The glow around Purity's hand dims. Slightly.

"What?" I can practically taste the shock in Purity's voice. I use her moment of surprise to position myself between Tattletale and the most dangerous Blaster in the North East. Now she can't kill the Thinker without killing me. Not the safest place for me to be, but maybe it will make her hesitate.

"Parley. Let's talk this out." I lift my hand from Tattletale's shoulder to her mouth and form a muzzle. Letting her butt in on the delicate negotiations that are about to happen sounds like an excellent way to get dozens of people killed. That, and if she lives through this I'm going to consider _tearing out her tongue_. "You have grievance with Tattletale. Tattletale claims she didn't do it." Both Purity and I think that claim is bullshit, but I need to stall and hope one of the passive bastards behind me calls the Protectorate. "Let's figure this out."

"I had a family. A life." Purity sounds furious but fragile, like a storm inside an eggshell. "A baby girl. A beautiful baby girl." Her voice cracks. "I didn't even get to say goodbye." Her hand doesn't waver, but her shoulders heave. I stand there, struck silent.

Oh hell.

Purity is a mother. And Tattletale took away her daughter, however indirectly.

I think about the pain of losing Mom. Then I flip the feeling around and try to imagine what it would be like for a mother to lose her child and turn the sorrow into _hate_ , to want to lash out instead of withdraw.

In. Out. Mask on.

The public's opinion of me is becoming less and less persuasive as time goes on.

I feel a scrape on my hands and turn to look at Tattletale. She's pointing to her mouth, eyes pleading for release. I pull her close and shrink down my lifts enough that I can look her in the eye. She makes a talking motion with her hands. I lean over to her ear.

"Do you have a way to prove you didn't do it?" I whisper before releasing the muzzle.

"No, but I can-" I reform her muzzle before she can attempt to use her power to warp my mind. Then I turn back to Purity, a plan forming in my head.

"I can't let you kill her." No matter how much I want to. "Not here. And I can't let you drag her away, not when she came to me for help." I leave out the part where _I really wish I could be the one to crucify her_. "What if her loss was proportional?"

Purity laughs. Once. It's a dry, hopeless sound, closer to a sob than anything else. "I lost my daughter and my freedom. What can she lose?"

"A pound of flesh." Tattletale is tapping furiously against my backplate, but I ignore it. I'm trying to save her life. If she didn't want me to she should've ridden a dog off into the sunset with the rest of her team. "I can't let you kill her, but what about a hand? That, and a public de-masking." I motion to the surrounding cameras. Tattletale can live without a hand, and the face reveal would be a reasonable comeuppance. "An eye for an eye."

"That's not even close to a fair trade." Damn. Purity's hands begin to brighten again. "Now _move_."

Plan B.

I pull Tattletale into my arms and push out as much bone as I can, moving us into the bone and away from Purity, making the dome bigger even as I feel the silent light boring through it. Gotta get away.

We emerge from the sphere with the glare of an angry star shining behind us, and I waste no time sprinting away. It's only a matter of time before Purity realizes we've gone. I tear off Tattletale's gag.

"I _hate_ you." I hope she understands the level of self control it's taking me to resist the urge to _grind her into a paste of flesh_. "Help me get us out of here."

"She's going to be distracted for maybe another few seconds, you need to get out of the open." She's whispering and her eyes are wide behind her mask. Good. Maybe now she'll be able to see the full scope of her fuck up. I dash into an alleyway and start thinking of alternatives. Take cover indoors? No, she'd just level the building around me. Underground, maybe?

"Right!" Tattletale hisses. I juke and a beam of light tears a nearby dumpster to pieces. I hazard a glance up. Purity's there, aiming another shot. I crash into the side of a building to avoid it. Tattletale hisses in pain. Right. Have to focus. I turn my attention back to the road.

"Stop!" I stab a pillar of bone through a window and halt my forward progress. My eyes sting as something way too bright passes in front of me and I hear the ground shatter. Fuck, I'm blind. Need cilia. I extrude some and keep running, Tattletale keeps telling me how to dodge, and Purity keeps destroying the scenery around me.

I'm not fast enough to outrun her, no matter how many extra limbs I grow, but she's not quick enough on the draw to beat my agility and Tattletale's direction. I keep moving away from the shop, away from population centers and towards the Docks, somewhere the collateral damage can hopefully be minimized.

I lose track of time. The outside world gets less and less sensible until there's only the ground beneath my feet, Tattletale's voice in my ear, and the occasional moment of blindness when silent white light takes my vision from me. Everything else fades into the background until it almost feels like I'm dreaming.

Then something goes _crack crack crack_. I briefly think it's bone, but there's no pain to go with the sound. Then the lights stop and there's only Tattletale's voice. It's different though. Less panicked. Less frantic. Something else. I come back out of the haze.

"-litia , it's Miss Militia!" She's almost hysterical, laughing too high and too breathlessly for anyone to mistake it for happiness. "Home free!"

I slow to a stop. Somewhere along the ride Tattletale had wrapped her arms around me and I had wrapped her in bone. Now only an inch of bone and her catsuit separate us. I slowly loosen the bindings and try to put my thoughts in order. I can feel the not-bone parts of my body trembling, maybe from adrenaline, maybe from relief.

 _What a rush.  
_  
When Tattletale lets go of me, she stumbles and hisses. My hand shoots out and grabs her by the shoulder.

"Thanks, you were holding me a little close there. Cut off the circulation, and now I've got pins and needles-"

"You _used_ me." Now that I don't have a vengeance-seeking Nazi trying to spread my insides over a city block, it's time for _a fucking reckoning_. Tattletale looks up at my mask, smile back on her face, apparently unconcerned with her _imminent dismemberment_.

"And you _liked it._ Every second on the edge, every close call was like chocolate, a briefcase of money, and good sex all rolled into one. Not sure why you're not in the Wards, it's one of the only places- really? You don't like authority? No, more than that. You _hate_ authority, hate having to trust anyone with more power than you, including-" I don't like where this train of thought is going. I decide to halt it. Her eyes widen as I grow a thin blade of bone in my free hand. Not sure what I'm going to do with it, but _I'm real fucking sick of hearing her jabber. Now where to start?_

"Okay, motivation is off-limits, got it. Hey, would you look at that, it's the authorities! Hello Velocity!" I stay my hand and turn. The local speedster is, in fact, here. He has one hand on his belt and the other on his ear, talking quietly to himself as he stares at the two of us. I look to the side. A few rooftops away, Miss Militia is looking at us, a very large and very scary-looking gun held across her chest.

I let go of Tattletale, and she stumbles back, eventually collapsing to the ground. I pull the blade back in, and close my eyes.

In. Out. Mask on.

When I open them back up, the hero has let his hand drop from his ear to his side. I look at him, then at Tattletale, who's sitting on her ass rubbing at her legs and glancing between the two of us with undisguised curiosity. I look back at the Protectorate hero.

"Hello Velocity." I keep my voice as casual as possible. As if he hadn't just seen me ready and willing to maim another cape who wasn't a threat. As if he wasn't considering bringing me in as well. As if this was just a regular Wednesday afternoon. He nods once.

"White Rose." There's a moment of silence. "Would you be willing to give a statement about how you ended up here?"

"Once I talk to my lawyer." Mr. Doe is going to throw a fit. I'm not sure what the fallout of publicly offering to mutilate a teenager for a Nazi is going to be like, but I'm going to assume not good. I needed his help twenty minutes ago. Velocity tilts his head.

"A statement isn't something you really need a lawyer for. It's not," he fumbles for words before shrugging. "It's more of a 'I was on the scene and this is what happened.' You don't have to provide one if you don't want to," he clarifies. I sigh.

"I choose not to give a statement." Velocity processes that for a moment, but doesn't comment. Instead, he motions past me.

"I'd like to secure Tattletale now. If you would please step out of the way?" I move aside and watch silently as he walks over to the Thinker and explains a few things to her. She nods along and extends her hands. Velocity zip-ties them together and stands back up, looking towards me. "You can leave now if you want."

I nod and start walking back towards my shop. I need to run damage control, see if anyone was hurt, call Mr. Doe, and figure out how this is going to affect my business. I can already feel the waves of exhaustion from the multiple late nights that it's going to take to fix this.

About half a block away I stop and slap a hand to my mask before turning around and walking back to the hero. He waves at me cautiously. I sigh.

"Which way is Maroon and 125th?"

* * *

Once I'm back at the shop, I take exactly enough time to talk to the manager and confirm that no one was hurt before I get handed the shop phone.

"This is bad." Mr. Doe says. "You could've managed this better. On the other hand, at least you stood your ground against a Nazi."

"How sarcastic was that last comment?" I ask, pushing past a few concerned employees into the back room. "On a scale of 'you're fucked' to 'this is fine?'"

"Not sarcastic at all, and while this isn't fine it's also not a total disaster." I can hear the pounding of a keyboard through the phone. "You screwed up when you tried to negotiate with the Nazi and compounded it when you went for the Shylock method of bankruptcy, but saving a teenage girl from said Nazi probably brought you about even. We still need to write a press release and convince everyone that you're not insane and that your store isn't about to get strafed by an angry white supremacist." There's a pause. "Is it?"

I sigh. "Honestly? I have no idea. Purity's not going to be happy and she's at large, so maybe she will try to kill me. We didn't exactly have a chance to hash it out over drinks."

Mr. Doe makes a noncommittal noise. "Either way, it's probably for the best if the shop isn't open tomorrow. Or the day after. Maybe on Saturday, depending on how the employees are feeling. My advice? Go home, have dinner, and get some sleep. We'll assess damage and figure out the public response tomorrow. For now, just don't run across a Thinker's hidden base or an S-class threat by accident."

I laugh harshly into the phone. "I'll try." He hangs up after that. I give the employees who haven't left yet some bone souvenirs and leave my number and Mr. Doe's instructions with the manager. Then I go outside and head home.

* * *

Dinner is quiet, and Dad's been paying close attention to me throughout. After about ten minutes or so his fork clinks as he sets it down against his plate. He looks me in the eye.

"Taylor, are you alright?" he asks.

I sketch a false smile on my face, so fake that I _know_ I'm not fooling anyone.

"I tried to make a good first impression with some people and it didn't turn out the way I wanted."

Dad frowns and takes another bite of his mashed potatoes.

"I know a thing or two about recovering from a bad start. Anything I can help with?" I imagine Dad trying to negotiate with Kaiser, or talk down Armsmaster. I almost laugh. I shake my head instead.

"No, not really. I've already asked someone for advice, and they told me to let it cool down for a few days before I try to do anything else about it. Something about letting people process."

Dad's face becomes thoughtful as he rubs his chin.

"I mean, there's merit to the wait-and-see approach. On the other hand," he lifts his fork, a few green beans speared on the end of it, "Waiting means that whatever impression you made, good or bad, is going to be the only image in their heads for a while. If you don't take steps to correct that, it's only going to become more difficult to fix in the future. Maybe try again? Take the initiative, set up a meeting, and see if you can't set things straight before they come to their own conclusions."

I take a bite of chicken and mull it over. I could go in for some volunteer hours at the hospital, or pull another 'petals in the park' stunt. Nothing controversial, just something to make sure that people know I'm not dead.

It's either that or laying low, staying hidden, and letting someone else tell the story.

I swallow the chicken. "Yeah, I think that could work. Thanks Dad." I put on another smile, this one a little more honest. Dad grins back.

"Glad I could help." The dinner is still quiet after that, but the silence isn't as heavy. When I go to bed, I think about booting up my computer and trying to justify my actions on PHO. I think about it, but I don't. That's tomorrow's problem. Instead, I change into my pj's, turn off the lights, and go to sleep.

I dream of dancing between flashes of light, chasing something, and being happy.


	31. Bloat 3

"You're taking this remarkably well."

Mr. Doe (John, now that I've actually paid his fees) looks up from his Caesar salad with his mouth full and an eyebrow raised.

"The last time you took me here, it was to explain how I was screwing myself over." I say as I take a bite of steak. "I figured that this was going to start with a lecture."

He shrugs and swallows. "I'm not in the habit of attacking people for things outside their control. You _did_ have control over whether or not you went out to play hero," — I twitch under my armor at the contempt in his tone — "and you _did not_ have control over whether or not a criminal would stop by your shop and place you in a catch twenty-two. My clients getting themselves into trouble irritates me. Other people getting my clients into trouble," he shrugs, "That's how I earn a living."

I nod. Defend people from others, not themselves. It's a weird sort of code, but I really shouldn't be throwing stones. "I still threatened someone with dismemberment in public."

"You were bluffing." He looks me in the eye and I can tell he knows I wasn't. "That's your story and you're sticking to it. You were trying to stall for the Protectorate and started babbling to try and convince a murderous neo-Nazi not to kill someone. None of the videos circulating online contradict that, and over-the-top threats aren't exactly new to the cape scene."

I go back to my steak and he goes back to his salad. When we come up for air he starts talking again.

"You need to make a public appearance of some sort as a way to bounce back from this before it can get too much momentum. Something unambiguously good. You said that you worked with Isidis, right?" I nod.

"I think we get along." Insofar as a pair of people with complementary powers and no real reason to hate each other get along. That, and we have a similar sense of humor. I smile as the memory of sitting on an operating table getting my eye regrown comes back to me. John nods back.

"Do some volunteer work. The store will open again on Saturday. Be there." I think back through my schedule and wince.

"I won't be able to make Saturday." That's when I'm taking the GED. I found a place that offers the test once a month, and I don't want to put it off any longer. John shrugs.

"Then we'll re-open on Sunday." He doesn't press for the reason why and for that I'm thankful. I don't want to lie to him, but I'm pretty sure telling someone that you're taking a federally-registered test on a certain date is a good way to reveal your civilian ID.

A heart wrenching sob from a suddenly-childless mother comes to mind and I shut down that thought process. Dad's going to be safe. I'll be careful. _No one will hurt him._

The rest of the meal passes in amiable silence. We split the bill this time (using my brand-new debit card, which was set up by someone in John's office) and part with a handshake. I promise to look into getting a better phone and he promises to look into finding more painters for me to work with. As poorly as yesterday ended, watching the spheres transform from dead tissue into works of art was a lot of fun and _extremely_ profitable. Commissions wouldn't be too hard to do on my end, and there's a lot of potential room for growth.

When I head to the hospital, it's with a light heart and looser muscles.

* * *

When I leave the hospital, it's with an empty stomach and a mind craving stimulation. I saw nothing new today. I know it sounds insensitive, but fixing any sort of clean break is boring now, and the compound fractures aren't much more difficult. It's _good_ that I'm bored and that exotic injures aren't happening regularly, but that doesn't make the volunteer work any less of a drag.

"Welp, I've got no plans for the rest of the day." Amy stretches her arms over her head as we walk out of the hospital. I can hear vertebrae pop as she works out the kinks in her back, and she sighs in relief as her arms drop down to her sides. She glances to me. "Want to grab a bite? I found a pretty nice sandwich shop." I nod, then pause.

"You're not going to eat with your family?" Her expression changes, slight enough that I could've missed it if I wasn't looking at her. I wince internally. "Did I bring up a bad topic?" She shakes her hand and waves at me.

"Nothing bad. Just some odd coincidences. Carol's working late, Vicky's on a "special date" with Dean," she adds air quotes and gratuitous amounts of eyebrow wiggling, "and Dad went out to a poker night. I'd be eating at home alone and I don't really feel like trying to get through a whole pizza by myself." There's a note of melancholy in her tone and I remember all the quiet nights when Dad stayed late at the office trying to keep the union afloat. I place a hand on her shoulder and give it a sympathetic squeeze.

"I'd love to have dinner with you." I'll leave a message for Dad. I can't imagine him complaining about how I'm hanging out with a friend instead of eating at home, and I feel like Amy might need someone to take her mind off of things tonight. That, and after we move past the awkward phase our meals tend to be a fair bit of fun.

"Thanks Rosie," Amy says, patting the hand on her shoulder and smiling up at me. "It means a lot."

"Any time," I answer, smiling back behind my mask. I drop my hand as we move on and think about the relationship between Amy and I.

What I have with Amy is not what Emma and I had. We don't cry around one another, we don't share the real extent of our worries, and for the most part we try to stay away from real topics. Part of that is public versus non-public cape, but more of it is... not wanting to risk things by escalating. I don't know what sort of skeletons she has in her closet (I stifle a chuckle at the pun) and she doesn't know about mine. Well, besides the obvious ones.

Maybe we could go farther, but for now this is nice. Just two co-workers who have a good time with one another, go out for food every few days, have regular physical contact...

A thought occurs. I stop in my tracks and Amy looks back at me, a questioning look in her eyes.

"Are you coming onto me?" I ask. It's blunt, but I really don't want to leave anything ambiguous here.

Amy stares for a moment. Then her shoulders start shaking. And her lips turn upward.

"I didn't want to-"

The rest of my apology is drowned out as peals of laughter spill from Amy's mouth. I see a few smokers down the street stare at us for a moment. I feel my flesh go red under my armor and have to actively resist the urge to hide my face in my hands. Amy is likely the only one who heard my response, and I think I can rely on her to be discrete.

Literally falling to her knees is a tad much though.

Once her fit has passed, she stands back up and brushes her self off, a giggle still occasionally escaping her. She looks up at me.

"You think I've been hitting on you?" She can barely finish the sentence before laughing again. This time she at least has the grace to try and stifle it. I sigh.

"You've invited me to eat with you a number of times. We get along well. You asked me to strip. I think it's a not unreasonable conclusion." I mutter the last bit and stare over her head. One of the advantages of being tall is that you don't have to make eye contact when it's inconvenient.

"Sorry, you're not my type." Amy walks past me, slipping in a slap to my backside and giving me flashbacks to another female member of New Wave. "A little too skinny." After a few steps she turns around, an eyebrow raised and a smirk on her face. "Is the sudden lack of romance the end of our dinner date?"

I catch up in a few steps, then shrink to a more reasonable height to match her stride. We walk for a while in silence, mine embarrassed and hers simply comfortable.

I decide to break it.

"So what _is_ your type?"

* * *

I spend Friday reviewing for the GED, have a nice dinner with Dad, then wake up at six in a nervous sweat. After a cold shower followed by a warm hug of bone, I review all the reasons I have _not_ to be worried.

It's just a test. One day and I'm done. I'm not actually competing with anyone. It's an inanimate object that harbors me no ill will, and the creators of it are probably just as passionate. I know the material and the bar is low. I only need to get seventy-five percent of the points, and I got eighty on the practice tests. I'm already out of school, this is just a formality. Even if I fail, I can just try again next month. Or the month after that. There's no pressure to succeed immediately. Heck, I only want it to ward off the truant officers, and they're so jaded by the Brockton Bay educational system that they'd probably be thrilled to hear I'm using my skip days to study.

I still spend an extra ten minutes worrying in the shower, and it takes Dad knocking politely on the door to jolt me out of my daze.

"You okay in there?"

"Yeah!" I say, shutting off the water and wrapping myself up in a towel. "I'll be just a minute!"

Once I'm changed I get to work on breakfast. Bacon, eggs and toast, simple but filling. I make a mental note to grab a lunch on the way there for the break between subjects. Dad comes downstairs as the last of the food finishes cooking and we eat together.

"You're going to do great Taylor."

"I know. Just pretest jitters." I thought I had left them behind in middle school, but maybe no test at Winslow had actually mattered enough to me to trigger them. Dad smiles, and ten years fall off his face.

"You know that Annette used to panic before her lectures?" I almost choke. Mom, the rock, a paragon of mental stability, scared? Dad starts twisting the wedding band on his left hand and gets a far-away look in his eyes.

"One day it got so bad she called me in the middle of a meeting and started babbling, trying to explain how she didn't know enough, how she wasn't sure if she could explain the ideas in her head, how she should've given up earlier and taken the job at the Library of Congress because at least then she wouldn't be out of a job when she screwed up here." I stare at him, breakfast forgotten. He pauses, then shakes his head and looks at me.

"So I left work early, broke a few speeding laws, and drove to the college. I got there just in time to enter the lecture hall. I had no idea what was going on." he shakes his head, smile now rueful. "I hadn't taken an English course in at least fifteen years and it was a three-hundred level seminar. I caught a glimpse of some of the notes the student next to me was reviewing and I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I didn't have the book, paper, a pencil, or anything else besides the clothes on my back."

"Then she walked in, nervous as a guy on his first day laying bricks, and scanned the audience until she saw me. Time stopped for a minute there. I don't know if any of the kids noticed it, but I sure as hell did." He puts both his hands on the table and stares at them, lost in his own little world. "She dropped her lecture notes on the podium and started talking. I had no idea if it was connected to her lesson plan or not, if inspiration had struck her out of the blue, if she was just falling with style, or if it was academic at all. All I know is that every single person in that room was transfixed. She was our oracle, and I learned more about the Odyssey in those two hours than I ever did in high school." He snorts. "The kids were so caught up in the moment they stayed after class asking questions for another hour. Eventually, they trickled out until it was just your mother and I." Then he looks up at me, the smile still on his face. "That night, we went out, had a nice dinner, and conceived you."

"Daaad!" I groan, covering my face as I flush. "Too much information." Ugh, now I can't get the image out of my head.

He laughs. "It took your mind off the test, didn't it?" I open my mouth to object, but pause. He's not wrong. The anxiety isn't gone, but it's a lot farther away. He nods his head and checks his watch. "We should probably get going." I nod back and we finish off our now-cold food before putting the plates in the sink. The car ride to the testing center passes in comfortable silence, and Dad stops to pick up donuts and morning beverages. He takes one, but the other three are for lunch.

Once we're there, he gets out of the car to give me an awkward hug. I return it. Then I ask a question.

"That story you told... is it true?" It seems a little convienient. Not impossible, but implausible. Dad shrugs.

"It's the truth, even if it didn't happen." I blink.

"One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Dad nods.

"I used to read along with her courses. She'd bounce ideas off of me and I'd pick out the undergrad level issues." His expression droops a little, but he forces a smile back on his face and leans against the truck. "Maybe I'll pick up the habit again. I've certainly got the time," he jokes. We stand together awkwardly for a moment.

I clear my throat. "So... I'll see you at five thirty?" I'm not sure how to end this. Neither does Dad, and he nods uncomfortably before getting back in the truck.

"Good luck." He drives off. I follow the car with my eyes for as long as I can. Then I turn to look at the community center where the test is being hosted. It's in the nice part of town, so the graffiti on the walls is tasteful and the windows are unbroken. I can see a few people milling about in the lobby, all at least a little dressed up.

I close my eyes and take a breath of the slightly-salty, very-polluted Brockton Bay air.

In. Out. Mask on.

Then I open them and walk into the building.

* * *

The bar is lower than I thought it was going to be.

The reading and the writing sections are a joke. I've spent enough time getting familiar with the cape scene that I've got the current events part of social studies on lock. History and literature go hand in hand, so I wasn't worried there either.

I was concerned about the math until I started playing with my bones in frustration. Then I realized that I could make a rudimentary calculator under my skin. Make a row of fourteen indents on my shoulder blade, copy twenty seven times, and be aware of the total of three-hundred and seventy-eight indents. Rinse and repeat. By making arbitrary but uniform markings along my radius I could shortcut algebra and geometry inside of a second. I didn't figure out any fancy hack for the sciences, but it's not anything I didn't go over at Winslow.

When I answer the last question, I can almost _feel_ the future opening up in front of me. I passed. I know I have. It's just a matter of waiting for the bureaucratic machine to do its work. I leave the building with a smile on my face, and when Dad picks me up I'm practically skipping. We go out to eat at an old pizza parlor, a long-forgotten haunt that we used to go to with Mom. We spend the night remembering, planning, and laughing.

I'll have to tell him about my powers, and that's not going to go well. On the other hand, being known as one of the most powerful neutrals in Brockton Bay might help soften the blow. I'll have a plan to stay safe, a way to make money, and no outstanding feuds. Hell, the E88 is the last major villain group. Who's going to be left to feud _with_?

Things are finally looking up, and my sleep is pure peace.


	32. Bloat 4

It's Sunday and the shop is as quiet as a graveyard.

I knew that the grand opening wasn't fantastic and that the chase was going to cause problems. I just didn't expect to go from packed to completely empty in three days.

The manager tried to sugarcoat it by saying that the fact a cape fight had happened in front of the store would actually bring back some of the business when the crazier denizens of Brockton Bay stopped by, hoping to see a repeat. I nodded politely as the fourth hour passed with five customers total, only three of whom bought anything. She deserved that much.

Sunday is a church day, so perhaps people are simply at services. Few people go shopping in the morning anyways. The evening is for lovers, and love means buying flowers. I have plenty of reasons to be optimistic.

That doesn't make the shop feel any less empty.

When I woke up this morning, I told Dad I was going to go out into the city for the day to celebrate passing the GED. He laughed and told me not to count my chickens before they hatched, then gave me fifty dollars for food and some luxury purchases. Once he went off to work I grew out my armor, ran to the Pale Garden and started the same routine as Wednesday, this time performing to an empty street. I didn't have the same level of excitement as I did on opening day, but the painter still showed up and we still made some art. There just wasn't anyone around to appreciate it.

It's almost a relief when Armsmaster rolls up on his motorcycle. Almost.

I stop working on the sphere and absorb it back into my armor. Painter guy (since we actually had time to breathe and no one was around, he introduced himself as Jared) notices the hero and gives me a questioning look. I nod once and he moves into the shop, out of earshot. With some semblance of privacy ensured I turn to the approaching hero, clasping my hands behind my back and taking a moment to center myself.

In. Out. Mask on.

"Hello Armsmaster. What brings you here?" More than likely it's the near-stabbing of Tattletale Velocity witnessed, but I should probably still observe the formalities. Armsmaster has his halberd at his side, non-threatening but ready for use at a moment's notice. I'm not sure how much I like him being on guard around me.

"Velocity informed me that he found you threatening Tattletale after Purity had flown off." Frank and to the point. Maybe a bit rude, but it gets the job done.

It's also an uncomfortable subject that makes me thankful for the armor holding me still.

"Are you planning on bringing legal action against me?" John's a phone call away, and if the Protectorate want to make a deal of it I'd rather bring him in sooner than later. Fortunately, Armsmaster shakes his head.

"No, but I would like to take this opportunity to discuss training with you. Not the Wards," he clarifies. I raise an eyebrow, forming a growth on my mask to mirror the motion, disturbing the gentle ocean wave patterns it's composed of today.

"Do you usually go this far for a single Rogue?" I ask rhetorically. Another type of recruitment attempt, different key but the same song. Armsmaster shakes his head.

"Normally, Rogues are a less aggressive and don't have such obviously confrontational powers. This leads to fewer engagements as they end up going out less and picking their fights more carefully. Increase either variable and the likelihood of recruitment or conscription rises dramatically. Increase both, and the length of their independence can be measured in weeks." He looks pointedly at me. I stay silent. After a moment he continues. "There is a program called MIRIS that attempts to support Rogues in society through various economic and social measures. In light of your odd case, Dragon has proposed a more militant version where Rogues are given some self-defense training by the local Protectorate to better resist forced recruitment attempts."

"That makes no sense," I state flatly. First, why would the Protectorate train random capes in how to be properly violent? That's just asking for a more dangerous breed of criminal to arise in response. Second, if anyone is willing to engage in such a program, they can probably get basic lessons from any number of places. The population who'd be interested in such a service are already being served, and entering a saturated market is a waste of time and resources.

"My thoughts exactly," Armsmaster agrees, "But it's an excuse to teach you how to take down criminals without cutting them open."

I stare at him, thinking about what he just said and wondering whether or not I should tear him apart for his slander and make an object lesson-

I flex my ribs. Stop. The messenger. Don't shoot the messenger.

"When have I done so?" I ask as calmly as I can. I need to find out if there's truth to the claims. If my rage is justified.

If it's not.

"The night of May first, morning of May second. You assaulted an ABB storehouse and encountered Hookwolf. While all fatalities do match his MO, there were a number of lacerations that were too clean to be his work. Few were deep but several scarred." He delivers the words quietly and without rancor. That makes it a bit easier to process as the spike of self-loathing and fury at my lack of control hits faster than I anticipate. "You have only killed once, and it was in self-defense. When you have used excessive force the results have not been life-threatening. I genuinely believe that the Wards program is the best way for you to learn how to use your power in the least lethal manner possible, but you have said no to that repeatedly. I hope that this compromise is more palatable and will allow us to help you keep from causing the excess harm that would lead to your inevitable incarceration." His tone never changes throughout his little speech, nor does he look away. I'm not sure if it's because he considers me a peer, if it's because he doesn't see me as enough of a threat to bother posturing for, or if he is simply a naturally passionless man.

I take a deep breath, warping my ribs to make it deeper than it could be normally, deep enough for my vision to go fuzzy around the edges. I hold it until the carbon dioxide burns and I feel a little more centered. Then I let it out in a long hiss.

No matter how the training goes, this will place me at least partially in the corner of the Protectorate. News of the program will get out, somehow, and people will start thinking I'm taking sides. That means the stupid villains who want to fight the "heroes" will come gunning for me as a way to fight a Protectorate proxy who's hopefully less skilled. One or two bad fights will convince me of the advantages of having a professional team at my back and sell me on a steady Protectorate job instead of being self-employed and dealing with villains on my own.

It's far more aggressive than Assault and Battery's pitch. On the other hand, Armsmaster is also using a hard truth to sell it.

I'm not in control.

I killed a man on my first night out. It was justifiable, but it still happened. I've crippled another without noticing, though that could be counted as malpractice on the part of the paramedics rather than explicitly my fault. The scarring can't be explained away except as "maybe a minor issue." Armsmaster doesn't know it, but I'm technically an accessory to first-degree murder, even if the victim was on her way to getting a Kill Order.

I'm not in control. Part of that is the murder-thoughts, part of that is not knowing when I'm seriously hurting people. I'm being offered a way to try to get a handle on my power, a way to both prevent future lawsuits from angry gangbangers and a way to reduce my chances of accidentally leaving someone bleeding out in the street. I shatter a few toe bones and swallow my pride.

"I want to discuss a few terms," I say slowly. "And I'm not going to commit to anything without talking to my lawyer."

Armsmaster nods. "I would expect no less. Is there a particular place that would be more suitable for this discussion?" I look around at the empty sidewalk, but see his point. No need to risk exposure.

"Time?" I ask, a sudden wave of exhaustion flowing through me. Like I just put down a huge weight, but the energy I had been using to carry it left me with it.

"Twelve seventeen," he says. I bob my head shakily.

"Are there any good restaurants nearby?"

"Two blocks east and three south is a deli that has received numerous commendations for its corned beef." I nod. Not exactly high dining, but enough for a quick outlining of terms.

"Can we talk over food?"

* * *

I get a few concessions. Nothing in writing because neither of us understand contract law, just some vague outlines about what the lawyers should be arguing over.

The location will be both neutral and private. Not the PRT or Protectorate HQ, not anywhere near my shop, and nowhere remotely close to the city. Chances are I'm going to have to commute for an hour to get someplace secluded enough, even with my Mover rating, but this way maybe I can delay the revelation of my involvement with the PRT. That, and if they extend the program to other parahumans, I don't have to meet or work with whatever new recruits they pick up.

I don't have to unmask to them, but in return I'll have to provide some collateral. We didn't agree on what that would be, but something like a dead drop with my civilian identity that I'd get back after I graduated from the program seems to be the best option.

It didn't all go my way. Armsmaster wanted me to meet the Wards, go on a ride-along with a member of the Protectorate, and talk to a Protectorate-employed therapist. A blatant attempt to use social groups to manipulate me, and when I pointed it out he also offered that making allies among future Protectorate members probably wouldn't be bad for business. Be that as it may, I'll pass on high school with superpowers. That, and I don't want to be seen openly siding with the Protectorate. After giving him a blunt explanation about why even appearing to side with the Protectorate could make villains want to fight me he dropped the subject, unhappy but satisfied with my explanation. The last point is still up in the air, and the bigger concern for him seems to be getting me in to see someone period.

"White Rose, I am the leader of the Protectorate East North East. I can count on one hand the number of parahumans with more influence in the Protectorate than me. I still attend a monthly session."

"One more reason for me not to join the Protectorate then." The woman behind the counter making sandwiches was remarkably unimpressed when two six-foot plus capes walked through her door during rush hour and asked for a private room, but the man seating people was a little more awestruck and got us a table in an otherwise empty room inside of five minutes. After the food arrived, Armsmaster activated a noise canceller in his halberd so we could talk freely.

"The sessions cut into an already full schedule," he concedes, his corned beef on rye with pickles and enough mustard to kill a horse long forgotten on the plate in front of him. "On the other hand, it's not a matter of convenience, it's a matter of health. Randomized trials and observational studies have shown significant and non-trivial correlations between regular therapist appointments and the overall mental stability of the participating parahumans." He doesn't seem to be phrasing it maliciously, but I do wince internally at the unintentional jab at my own fragile self control. Admitting you have a problem may be the first step, but it still feels worse than any type of shattered bone.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the whole point of this program is that I'll get Protectorate-grade training without the responsibilities. Meeting a shrink sounds like one of those responsibilities that I was specifically trying to avoid." I managed to not kill the Trio for three months after getting super powers, my relationship with my father is getting better all the time and I have a job. Therapy is for people who need help, and I've helped myself already.

Armsmaster sighs. "It's not a responsibility, it's a safety precaution. The point of this program is to train you how not to hurt people. While the Protectorate can provide the proper techniques, you also need to be in the right mental state to use them, and that can only be recognized by an individual bearing a license from the state. We don't want to teach you how to safely subdue a unpowered individual so it's easier for you to kill them."

I resist the urge to bash my head against the table. He granted my first two requests easily enough and accepted my first two refusals with good grace, but apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. "I. Don't. Need. A shrink."

"In that case, I'm asking you to sit in a room with a person who bears you no ill will for an hour every other week." Armsmaster takes a sip of water before speaking again. "I would be willing to accept a third party therapist, but the funding of this program does require that you attempt to improve your mental health."

"Even if there's no problem with it?" I sigh, turning away from his visor to look at his sandwich. I finished my turkey on wheat but I'm still feeling a little peckish.

"Even then," he answers, pushing his plate towards me. I take the peace offering and use it to buy time.

I've been examined before, but it's always been in the context of how I interact with other people. John wanted to know if I'd break his rules, the Protectorate if I'd break theirs, Hookwolf if I'd follow his. The only time it was ever about me was when Doctor Fedorov started trying to pick my brain after I idly mentioned how I was calmer after acquiring my power, and it took a not-too-subtle mention of bone spikes to get her to back off. More of that sounds about as pleasant as a sharp stick in the eye.

Once I finish his sandwich I lean back in my seat and sigh. The delay didn't help; I still don't have any idea how I'm going to convince Armsmaster to let me skip therapy. "I don't think we're going to get anything further done here. How about I call my lawyer and we set up a meeting later?" Procrastination won't solve the problem, but maybe something will occur to me in the coming days. Armsmaster nods and rises from his seat.

"That sounds agreeable to me." We exit the deli shortly after, the mob of civilians out front that's only partially our fault parting before us. Armsmaster turns to me and extends a hand. "Thank you for your time." He says it quietly enough that no one should be able to overhear it.

I take his hand and nod. "Thank you for the opportunity." I don't feel thankful, but it would be rude to not reciprocate. That, and this could've gone much worse.

Now it's time to-


	33. Bloat 5

Armsmaster wastes no time in sprinting to his motorcycle, the engine almost audible in the wake of the steadily receding sirens. I stand still, stunned silent, until he guns the engine and rolls up next to me.

"How fast can you move?" he asks. His voice is still flat, but it's a different type of flat, clipped and efficient instead of formal, the diction of a soldier without time for niceties.

"No idea," I answer. My voice sounds far away, like I'm speaking from the bottom of a well. Dad. Dad needs to get to a shelter. Needs to be safe. He's probably at his office. There should be a shelter a short walk away.

"White Rose, the rally point is the PRT HQ. Meet me there." Then he's gone, disappeared in the near-silent rev of engines and a blur of silver and blue. I stay still for a moment as civilians rush past me down either side of the street, pulling out their phones to call loved ones and find a safe place to hide. Safe-ish, anyway. Endbringer shelters don't actually stop Endbringers, they just give the civilians a place they can go to try to survive the splash damage. Civilians like Dad.

I need to focus.

I shatter toes. I still think of Dad. I shatter ribs. Dad. I break the plates of armor all over my body.

A feeling. One I've almost forgotten. Physical pain.

I reach for the feeling and focus on it. Dad will be fine. Civilians do live through Endbringer attacks. They evacuate, their shelters survive, sometimes they just get spared by happenstance. The Simurgh was the last one, so at least I don't have to rush him out of the city before he gets labeled a persona non grata.

I look around. The street is nearly empty.

I need to move.

I run, grow stilts, then legs, then fall back into the multi-limbed monstrosity that let me traverse the city back when Bakuda first went mad as I head up to the rooftops. I see three points of light streaking across the sky. New Wave. Another light, far brighter and faster, a second sun, outpaces them. Purity. The Empire can't be far behind her. I see a long, feathered serpent rising from the ground with three people clinging to it. The Travelers. There's a man in Grecian armor flitting from place to place in blue flashes of lighting. Dauntless.

Any other threat and the gathering would be a powder keg. Having this many capes in one place is usually asking for bloodshed. One wrong word, one bit of "accidental" friendly fire and it'd be a free-for-all of epic proportions.

Now all I can think of is how grateful I am that they're all still alive.

I outpace New Wave and the Travelers easily. The advantages of traveling alone. By the time I arrive, a cordon is already set up around a square of open area just outside the building. I see figures in colorful, professional costumes popping, warping, and fading into existence, typically with at least a few other parahumans. There's a Dragon suit staring out over the water at the approaching thunderheads.

A PRT agent notices me and points at the entrance of the PRT building. I nod and walk inside, weaving between new arrivals to enter a conference room. I see the Triumvirate, more Protectorate capes that I don't recognize, some corporate hero groups, a group of teenagers in costume that I figure are probably the Wards, what remains of the Undersiders, and a frowning blonde girl in a domino mask and an orange jumpsuit with the word "villain" down the side of it. After a moment I realize it's Tattletale. More capes stream through the doors, filling the room in ones, twos, and threes. Groups form, with nervous laughter and solemn silence forming the majority of the interactions between people.

I don't know where to go. Joining one of the groups is probably a good idea, but which one? The hero teams seem too tight-knit to disrupt, and _I still want to see how Tattletale fares without-_

I cut off the thought. This is bigger than a grudge, and it seems like she's getting her just desserts anyway.

I move towards the far wall and take another look at the room, looking for a place to be. I get a surreal flashback to my first few days of grade school when I didn't know anyone, and I almost laugh. The more things change.

I hear the clanking of metal on metal in two different tones. One grates metronomically, like two steel plates rubbing against one another. The other is chaotic and rattling, like a jar of nails turned on it's side and spun. The Empire enters the room in full regalia, a veritable tide of parahuman might.

It might be more impressive if I didn't know it was a front. That the E88 was on its last legs, hemorrhaging members and capital like a stuck pig. That the only reason they weren't all behind bars was because the Protectorate was waiting on outside help to shut them down once and for all.

I wonder which one of them is going to jump ship first? If any of them will?

Hookwolf, already blades from the neck down and surprisingly unmasked, says something to Kaiser. The Nazi nods and Hookwolf walks towards me, a somber expression on his face.

I school myself into calm. This is a public place, and a Nazi wants to talk to me. The correct thing to do is simply ignore him. I can't do anything about getting the attention, but I might be able to minimize the rest of the fallout.

"You're gonna be alright."

Once again, Hookwolf makes my brain stop.

"What?" It slips out, too fast to for me to stop it. Hookwolf continues.

"You're fast and you can take a hit. Probably only one though, don't get cocky. Don't stick your neck out for other capes unless you're sure you can get away with it. Remember that he's faster, way faster, than you think." He's in a rhythm and I think he'd go on for a while if I gave him the opportunity, but this makes no sense. I raise a hand to chest height.

"Hold on." He pauses. "Are you giving me advice?" It's not patronizing, there's almost no profanity in his diction, and he's looking me in the eye. It feels less like a lecture and more like one of Mom's explanations of Moby Dick. Which makes no sense.

"Yeah," he says before going right back to talking. "This ain't like fighting people, so ignore whatever comes easiest. Unless you've got a Thinker power, then trust that. Know who's around you so you don't lose an arm to a rookie Shaker-"

"Wait." He stops again and this time I can see irritation in his eyes. "Why are you giving me advice? And why should I trust it?"

"I don't want you to die Rosie," he says bluntly. "And I actually know what the fuck I'm talking about with this thing, so take it as gospel."

"You've fought Endbringers? When?" Why would a Nazi go seeking out fights with city-killing monsters?

"Rockaport in June of oh-seven and Duisburg in January of twenty-ten. And Endbringer, not Endbringers. Can't fly so Ziz's out, and the big bastard can fry me. Don't always get notified in time and I ain't going down to Africa or South America." He rattles off the information casually. "Now do you want to know about Leviathan or not?"

After a moment I nod. Hookwolf nods back.

"I'll be talkin' to the rest of the Empire. Walk over or don't." With that he spins on his heel, steel scraping a groove into the floor, and rejoins his gang. This time he's the center of attention, with even Kaiser deferring. I scan the rest of the room and see similar situations playing out. Wards talk to the older members of the Protectorate, the ones with thousand-yard stares who calmly finger their various implements and speak in dull but focused monotones. Armsmaster, a second halberd strapped to his back, is talking to Kid Win, whose mouth is twisted into a frown. The Ward nods and Armsmaster goes back to talking to Legend. Independents and villains speak quietly, a stilted politeness between previous enemies. I see the orange-suited Tattletale approach Isidis with Hellhound in tow, and after a short conversation the latter two leave the room. Then Legend walks up to a podium and the room falls silent.

He gives us the odds. One in four dead. He explains just how scary Leviathan is. How smart. How fast. He explains that we can't afford to play it safe, and that experience means more than power here because most fatalities are first-time volunteers. I get an armband from a Ward. Legend explains how to use them and how to call for help. When he asks for people who can interfere with movement, I stand up. We'll be going to the shoreline to try to blunt the effects of Leviathan's waves with Eidolon. Bastion, a man in metal armor reminiscent of a castle, motions for us to gather around him. Once the other groups are formed, Eidolon walks over to our group and claps his hands.

A moment of disorientation later and we're on the beach, increasingly large waves already turning the sand dark, rain coming down in sheets. Eidolon floats into the air without another word and flies off over the Bay, leaving us with Bastion, who has to shout to be heard over the roar of the ocean.

"We got a nice, early warning thanks to Armsmaster, but that doesn't mean we have forever so I'm going to make this quick. Don't think in absolutes. You're not going to be able to stop all the water and we're not going to be able to hold him in place for longer than maybe a few seconds. Think about how to minimize damage. If you're a matter projector, remember that Leviathan can toss your stuff around. Create responsibly. Focus on wave breakers for now and wait for orders when he does show up."

He gestures and a tent-like pair of force fields appear on the beach. Shielder steps up next to him and a jagged blue wall forms next to Bastion's construct. More and more types of barriers appear, everything from a series of organic-looking bubbles to a block that slowly shifts through the colors of the rainbow. A few people just stand still and talk, their Shaker effects subtly or not-so-subtly changing the landscape around them.

I shake my head. Observation later. I have a job to do.

I keep Bastion's words in my head as I push out bone. No absolutes. Minimize collateral damage. That means a lump of bone the size of a semi truck is probably a bad idea. The wall should be flexible, capable of breaking off pieces at a time without going all at once, and porous enough to let the water through after it absorbs the momentum from a wave.

I think back to my experiments with the botanist and nod to myself. I know of a few things that can take nature's worst.

I start warping bone into thorny stems, long and thin, packed loosely. I keep growing the blackberry bramble, pushing it down the beach in either direction, just behind and between the other creations. When a wave crashes into some of the growth, the bone flexes but doesn't break. Another wave breaks against it further down the line, going from a single cohesive mass to droplets as it pushes through the pseudo-mesh.

The idea works. Now I just need coverage.

I keep pushing until I can't see either end of my bramble. Then I turn to Bastion, who's staring at his tent city of force fields. I'm not sure how long they'll last, but he's covering at least fifty square feet all by himself.

"I can't see the ends of my reinforcements. I'm going to need to move if I want to expand them further."

"How fast can you do it?" Bastion asks. His eyes never leave the beach and I see another tent forming slowly where his attention is focused.

"Mover rating fast," I answer. He nods once, a quick, jerky motion.

"Do it."

I'm stilting up to speed as soon as he finishes talking, a single tendril keeping me connected to the bramble as I travel north. When the end of my formation comes into sight, I start pushing out bone again, forming braids and lattices and tangles as I let my feelings and half-formed thoughts work their magic, only taking real control when I have to twine between the creations of the other Shakers who've also traveled up along the beach. One of them is building something out of black and white pillars of some alien material, noises echoing oddly as the pillars rest against one another. A different cape is standing in front of an amp the size of a car, a cigarette between his teeth and an electric guitar held across his chest, occasionally strumming it and sending all the rain around him radiating outwards.

Soon I'm alone, growing the wave breakers maybe half as fast as I can move. I take a moment to look back and see the results of my handiwork, and a little bit of hope springs up as I see the extent of my reinforcements. Maybe it won't be as bad as Legend made it out to be.

Then I feel a shattering sensation behind me and my armbands starts chiming.

 _Leviathan has made landfall. Bastion down, QR-8. Goesgone down, QR-8. Cyster deceased, QR-8. Spindle-Eye down QR-8, AbblyBabbly deceased, QR-8 ..._


	34. Bloat Interlude

They say people make sacrifices for art, for science, and that nothing worthwhile was ever done without the risk of failure. They aren't wrong. Even something as simple as a variable-setting laser pistol takes _forever_ to grow from the seed of an idea to the guts and wires on a table to a functioning pre-approval prototype. The process of creation is taxing, painful, and occasionally embarrassing. Everyone knows that making things is hard, but what almost no one talks about is what you do with your work once you've actually finished it.

I look down at the alternator canon. I built it so I would have something to whip out for when I ran into an A-class threat. When, not if. Armsmaster likes stressing the importance of preparation. It works well with his specialty. He can have a tool for every occasion, every situation, all because he can somehow manage to cram all the tech he could need into spaces so small even other Tinkers want to call it ridiculous.

Me?

I just try to have a tool _period_.

I pick up a power screwdriver with a groan and start pulling apart the one thing, the one piece of work, that I was actually proud of. Gone because I couldn't wait to show off.

The first thing that I extract is the power source. Power plant, really. Enough energy for a basically unlimited number of shots in succession. I leave it on a table with another three half-completed projects and put a sticker on it, a big red "X" on a white background. Piggot wanted it dismantled, but she never specified how small she wanted the pieces. Maybe I can salvage something from it?

The rest of the dissection is an exercise in emotional control and patience. I didn't make a lot of these parts for easy removal, and it shows. A few things break and get tossed into the scrap bin for recycling. A few more get out intact but are too niche to justify hanging onto. They get placed by the way side, to be disassembled into even smaller parts and tossed in bins of generically useful stuff. There's a lot of pedestrian crap that's not worth trying to organize. I'm eventually left with a hunk of metal and disconnected wires, the vital organs and beating heart, all laid out next to each other, some broken, some not.

I look at the result of my hard work. Then I tear my gaze away from it and look at what's left.

The power source. It generates more energy than I can use right now, but if I keep it intact I might be able to cut time off other projects in the future. It's small enough to fit in a backpack, so power armor? I shake my head and push it off to the side. That's a long term thing. _Really_ long term, for when I know what I want a full suit to look like.

The control panel. Too complicated to take apart easily and it's got a lot of buttons. What about a multi-purpose controller for stuff? Again, keeping it in storage could shave a few days off other projects by using this as the interface for turrets or something. I might have to reconfigure it to make sure that all my future projects can actually connect to it, but that's a problem for future-Chris.

I examine the anti-grav ring for about six seconds, then move on. The first thing that springs to mind when I look at it is a projectile launcher that can take any sort of munition. The next thing is that I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to spin a railgun to the advisory board after this screw up. That, and I've got plenty of guns. No, I need something new, preferably something that's not one hundred percent offense-oriented. A non-combat tool that doesn't scream "amatuer Tinker at work."

The focal drive. The thing that gathered all the different energy inputs and put them together. Mixing energy sounds cool, even if I can't use it right now. A floating force multiplier, maybe? I've only seen it mix together traditional stuff like electricity and heat, but if I could modify it to take Blaster emissions and ambient radiation I could get a similar effect to the cannon...

I cut off the sudden rush of ideas, barely, and nod firmly. Different song, same tune. Still a long-term project, but a little more achievable than a new suit of power armor. Also not a non-combat tool, but since it would need teamwork to fire it would sound better than "super-sonic rock-thrower."

"Chris?" I startle a little at the voice and turn towards the door. It's Carlos, mask in one hand and a smile on his face.

"Yeah?" I ask. He points at the clock on the wall. I look at it. It's nearly five. Right. Home. "Just give me a minute to pack some of this stuff up," I say, motioning to the mess scattered around me.

"I'll be waiting," Carlos says, waving casually as he walks out of the room. I watch him leave and sigh.

It must be nice having such a simple power. Hard to put down, good mobility, and reasonably family-friendly as long as no one catches him trying to shove his liver back into his torso. I look back at the scattered viscera from the alternator cannon and sigh again.

It's going to take a long time to make up the ground I've lost today.

* * *

It takes maybe thirty minutes to drive from the PRT HQ to the Medhall lab were I'll be working. The agents in the back of the car don't speak much, but I don't take it personally. Piggot's come down harder on breaches of discipline ever since Missy started "borrowing" some of their more creative swear words, and while it hasn't stopped them from making the occasional dry comment when they overhear us ranting about the public it did put a damper on the small talk.

The PRT agents escort me through the building along a pre-planned route until we get to a pair of double doors where I'm greeted by a man in a lab coat holding his phone out, tapping at the screen furiously. That quickly gets put back into his pocket, and a broad grin spreads across his face as soon as he sees me.

"Welcome Mr., uh, Kid Win?" The scientist stumbles over my name, sheepishly scratching the back of his head and looking at the impassive visors of the PRT agents. He's gone grey early, but his hairline isn't receding and he has a lot of laugh lines on his face. I wave my hand casually and put on a public event-grade smile even as I hear the _click clack_ of combat boots walking away.

"I'm not really a mister yet. Just call me Kid. Or Win. Either/or," I say. "What's your name?" Gallant's the best with people, but I take second place. It's one of those things I can get right without my screwed up brain getting in the way, and getting those little wins helps hold back the bitterness of coming near dead-last in every other category. Sometimes.

"Well, Win," he says, almost stumbling over the word, "It's a pleasure to meet you!" He extends his hand and I give it a shake. He holds it for a moment too long, then awkwardly lets go and motion towards the doors. "Anyway, here's the lab. And I'm Dr. Singer," he adds, name almost an afterthought. I nod in acknowledgement and push into the room to start looking around. I'm serving punishment detail, but it's a punishment detail where I get to tinker, so maybe it's a blessing in disguise. As I take in my surroundings, I revise my expectations. Beakers, bottles, burners, and a lot of other stuff I see at school in chem, except bigger and more expensive-looking. All of it pretty useless to me.

"Um, is this it?" I ask, motioning around at the lab. When Singer gives me a look, I clarify. "I mean, I'm not sure what I can do with a bunch of chemicals. I typically make my batteries and stuff out of metals." Armsmaster can make some really _weird_ drugs, which is one of those fuzzy areas where sometimes wet and dry tinkering overlap. I haven't tried anything like that yet mainly because I don't want to accidentally give anyone a heart attack when my tech screws up.

I see the realization dawn on the doctor's face as he slaps his forehead. "Right! Sorry, when you asked for a lab I thought science lab, not an engineering shop." He shakes his head and walks over to a computer. "I'll try to see if anything is available, but I wouldn't hold your breath. The prototypers tend to be pretty jealous of their tech time." I sigh and hop up onto a lab stool. My legs don't even touch the ground. Eventually, he groans in frustration and drops his head to the desk.

"I got us some time on Tuesday, but until then," — I see his shoulders slump further somehow — "This is the only lab that's open. Damn, damn damn." His last words are quiet enough that I think I'm not supposed to hear them.

"I mean, it could be worse," I say. When the doctor turns to fix me with a flat glare, I hold up my hands in surrender. "I mean, I'm not a great Tinker. It'd be different if it was Armsmaster cooling his jets, but me? You're not missing out on much." The doctor snorts derisively.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a Tinker to share a lab with a normie?" Singer asks, shaking his head as he sits across the table from me. "You're quite literally the second one I've ever worked with, and the first one used his lab materials to escape." I laugh at that.

"You don't have to worry about that," I joke. "Piggot would skin me alive if I tried to get out of this." He has a chuckle at that, then the room descends back into an awkward silence as we stare at each other, trying to figure out something else to say.

Just because I'm the second best at PR doesn't mean I'm _good_ at it. Why are people so hard?

"So you don't work with chemicals?" Thank you for picking up the thread, Dr. Singer. I wiggle my hand up and down and shrug one shoulder.

"I mean, it's more that the review process for stuff that affects people is a lot more intense than the process for working on tools," I say. "Armsmaster can self-approve some of his own stuff because he has a lot of experience, but if I wanted to make an extra-strong coffee it'd take five forms, three meetings, and an interview." I mean, it makes _sense_ , but that doesn't mean it's not a pain. Dr. Singer nods.

"Like getting funding for basic research compared to getting funding for practical research," he says. When I give him a blank look from behind my visor, he clarifies. "Basic research is asking questions like 'how do people respond to seeing different colors in a stressful situation?'. Practical research is 'should we make traffic signs red or purple?'" I nod sympathetically, not quite seeing the connection but not wanting to alienate him. He continues on. "So, you haven't worked with chemicals because you don't want to handle the paperwork?"

"That, and I don't want to hurt anyone," I add. Never let a second-rate Tinker mess with your body. Singer makes a dismissive noise and waves his hand.

"That's what lab rats are for. Want to give it a shot while Medhall is paying for the specimens?" I lean back a little, trying to keep my face neutral.

"I don't really want to hurt rats either," I say quietly. Singer tilts his head.

"You know we breed them to die, right?" I nod.

"Still doesn't make me want kill them," I answer. He sighs.

"Right, not a med student." I'm not sure if I should be offended, and it must show on my face because Singer waves his hands in front of himself, more than a little sheepish. "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to come across like a jerk. It's just that a lot of the people I work with have gotten used to testing on mammals. You get used to accepting that you're going to mess up, and that messing up is going to have consequences. Better to mess up on a rat than on a person. Am I making sense?" he asks, scratching the side of his head. I think about all the time I've spent shooting at dummies to make sure that my tech won't accidentally blow a hole in a person.

"Yeah, I kinda I get it," I answer. Singer nods.

"If you don't want to test your stuff on rats, how about crayfish?" I blink.

"Crayfish?" I ask. Singer nods.

"Crustaceans. Dumb as rocks, breed like mad, and not much higher up the totem poll than insects. If you don't want to hurt a small furry animal, how about the ugly-as-sin cousin of a lobster?"

"I don't think that addresses the main problem of hurting things," I say slowly, trying to steer the conversation away from making drugs.

"C. elegans?" he presses. "They're so simple that we've mapped their growth from birth to death almost completely. It's like experimenting on really big bacteria."

"Why are you trying so hard to get me to work on drugs?" I ask. He raises a hand, pauses, and groans, the hand going to the side of his head as he leans back and grimaces.

"Ugh, sorry, it's just," he fumbles for words, waving his hands around his head a bit before giving up and looking at me. "You have a power, right?" I nod slowly. "And it's one that maybe, just maybe, can help advance medicine, which would help a lot of people. Even if us regular mortals can really only 'get' one percent of it, it could still help a lot. Like, we discovered a new non-addictive pain killer by just _looking_ at one of Sweetwater's drugs. I can't force you to do stuff you're not okay doing, but I can try to pitch as many ideas to you as I can and hope that one of them sticks because I honestly think that I could learn something from watching you mess around with biology. I'm trying to frame the messy parts of biology in a way that makes you more comfortable with the idea of pushing boundaries." He runs a hand through his hair and leans forward onto his arm. "You've got the power here. Literally and figuratively. If you don't want to do wet science, you're not going to do wet science. That doesn't mean I can't try to convince you to give it a shot anyways."

He stops talking and I take a moment to reassess him, looking for more than just general feelings this time. He clearly wants to press the issue more, to get me to do something, but he tightens his jaw and doesn't go any further.

I don't like the way he's been talking to me. It sounds like a lecture, and even though he's trying not to be too condescending it's still pretty obvious he doesn't see me as an equal. Maybe he's just not good in social situations, but even so he's coming across as kind of a dick.

On the other hand he's trying. That, and sitting around drawing stuff isn't going to pay off my debt.

"First we're going to need something to test," I say. Singer's face lights up and he leaps to his feet, slapping his hands on the table and causing me to jump a little.

"Fantastic! What do you need? We've got a lot of common stuff on hand, and if you need something more complex we can synthesize it in a few hours." He stands up and drags over a whiteboard, pulling out a marker and pacing in front of it as energy suffuses him. I look around and start thinking, heart rate spiking.

"Um..." Great. _Now_ I'm freezing up. "I'm open to ideas?"

"What's your specialty?" he asks, turning around with his pen ready to write. I wince.

"I don't know." He lifts his free hand and shrugs with one arm.

"What have you made that you're proud of? Start with whatever you think is coolest."

"The alternator canon," I answer immediately. Then my mind catches up with my mouth and I cringe, looking down at my lap. Singer doesn't seem to notice, though.

"What's that?" he asks.

"... the thing that wiped your data banks," I mumble quietly.

There's a moment of awkward silence.

"Well, what did it do?" I look up. He's a little less excited now, but he's still attentive. "I mean, it'd be pretty poetic if what got you into this mess got you out of it," he says, a corner of his mouth quirking up. I smile back nervously.

"It mixed a lot of different types of energy together," I say, trying to keep it simple. "Radiation, electricity, kinetic, heat, a bunch of stuff. It could also moderate it. Beam dimensions, intensity-" I cut myself off. "Basically a lot of power with a lot of control."

"Could you make something that did that with drugs?" he asks, scrawling 'lots of stuff into one' on the board. "Maybe something that scans blood, diagnoses problems, then mixes up a cocktail to treat them?"

An image flashes through my mind of a device that looks like an IV drip with a lot of different vials attached.

"The injector, yeah," I answer, forcing myself back to earth. "I think someone would have to put in the actual medicine request manually, though." He writes 'fast drug mixer' next to a bullet point and makes another one.

"What about an autodoc?" I shake my head.

"Too complicated," I say. "I can't code that well."

"What about a tool that can change in response to a changing situation?" he presses, flipping the pen in one hand. "A scalpel with variable length, a drug that can can do multiple things depending on where it's applied, flesh grafts that can go anywhere-"

"The scalpel," I interrupt, a design flashing into my mind. "A multi-tool, with a head that can be changed out."

"What can it do?" he asks, drawing a line to divide the board in half and writing 'variable-use surgical instrument' at the top of it.

"Tweezers, flesh separation, flesh repair, sterilization..." I keep going, he keeps writing, and when I run out of steam he flips over the board and starts throwing out more ideas.

By the time the PRT agents come by to pick me up and take me home, we've moved off the white boards and onto a computer, writing in a word doc filled with shorthand ideas. We shake hands and he waves as I leave.

"Looking forward to tomorrow!" he says, smiling honestly.

"Me too!" I say, waving back. To my surprise, I mean it. Somewhere in the conversation we stopped being cape and scientist and became into two people discussing creation.

Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

* * *

Four days later I'm busy lathing a port for a vial of chemicals when an idea hits. Those have been coming more and more frequently, and while I'd normally push them to the side when I'm working, this part of the build is simple enough that I feel comfortable letting my mind wander. There's no reason the injector needs to be _only_ an injector, is there? I could make it a multi-purpose instrument with delivery tools that can switch between aerosol, intravenous delivery, and pill creation. Come to think of it, why don't I try that with my guns? Broad blasts for crowd control, continuous beams for Brutes and Shaker constructs, rapid-fire for multiple targets, anything and everything. There's no reason I need to limit myself to using just one at a time-

I have an epiphany.

"I. Am. An idiot," I say, keeping enough presence of mind to stop the machine and step away from it as I slap my hands over my face. "Such an idiot!"

"What do you mean?" Singer asks. I turn towards him. He's looking up from a carton of Chinese take-out, genuinely curious.

"Switching stuff out. That's it. That's the thing that's always there. That's the common thread!" I say. I'm starting to ramble, I know. I grab a pen and walk over to another whiteboard. "The multi-tool? The handheld scanner? The cannon? _All of them did different things!_ " I start sketching out anything that comes to mind, too many images in my head to be coherent. I think I get the gist of them though, and more images keep coming and I curse my hand because it can't keep up.

"You're not making any sense. One's a tool, one's a camera, and one's a gun. Of course they do different things," Singer says. I hear the soft slap of rubber against ceramic as he walks towards me. "What are you on about?"

"My specialty!" I say, spinning around. His eyes go wide, but I keep going. "Multiple parts, multiple settings, multiple modules! The reason I can't get a project done is because it's _never_ done! I need to get an idea, start with a core, then just keep making parts for it and swap them out when I need to! I need to make things I can _upgrade_ , that are future-proof!" It makes so much sense! All my guns, floating around my anti-grav ring to deliver whatever munition I need. A suite of medical devices, all slaved to the same control board. The control board! I still have it, I can use it to-

"Win?" I snap out of my fugue and notice that Singer is staring at me.

"You kind of zoned out there," he says, eyes tight with concern.

"Sorry, I got carried away," I say sheepishly. Jeez, freakout much? I take a deep breath, then let it out. And again. When I feel back at baseline levels of Win, I sit down by the lathe and go back to smiling. "I just," I wave a hand at the air as the other starts re-securing the part. "It's like everything suddenly makes _sense_ now!" Armsmaster can have a million tools available because he can shove them into a space that's too small to be sensible. I could have a million tools available because _all my tools are other tools too!_

"Win." I snap out of my daze again and turn to face Singer. He's back at the table and his eyes are focused on me again. "You just zoned out again."

"I'm better now," I assure him, turning back to the lathe.

I get way more done in that one afternoon than I did in an entire weekend of tinkering before knowing which paths to look down. I get an impulse? I ask if it helps me make something more versatile. If yes? Apply. If no? Ignore it.

When I leave, I'm practically skipping with glee. I send an email to Armsmaster telling him the good news and asking for ideas. I also request a look at his tech, too. Maybe now I can make a useful suggestion and start paying him back for all of the help he's given me.

* * *

I'm halfway through creating yet another head for the multi-tool when a group of PRT agents burst into the lab, weapons drawn. Singer puts his hands up immediately as one of them trains a rifle on him and I sit bolt upright, tinkering forgotten, as another agent levels their weapon at me, visor impassive.

"Kid Win, Master/Stranger password. Now." I blink in surprise, but instinct takes over and I rattle mine off.

"Kilo Mike Sierra One-One-Six-Eight."

"Eight-Zero-Niner Alpha Fiver Delta," the agent says back, nodding once. "We've got to go. Leave anything that's not going to explode."

As I step away from the table I catch a glimpse of Singer watching me with wide eyes. Then he's gone and I'm being escorted down the hall, out of the building, into a van loitering in the parking lot.

Once we're underway, I turn to the officer escorting me. "What's going on?"

"Medhall is a front for the Empire," he says, voice flat and emotionless. "Your contract with them is now null and void. A separate team will retrieve your tech as soon as possible, but getting you out took priority."

I sit there, processing. I try to reconcile the memory of Hookwolf slapping Vista aside with the one of Singer and I cheering over a successful test of the auto-stitcher. I try, and I can't. Medhall. Empire. Singer. Kaiser. They don't match. This doesn't make any sense.

"We're not sure how deep it goes," the agent says quietly. Implicitly, the PRT isn't certain that Medhall employed _only_ Nazis. Maybe Singer's one of the good ones? "It's going to be looked into. You are not culpable for anything your tech does. I'm sorry," he adds.

The rest of the ride is silent.

* * *

The city is still reeling, still trying to figure out how to deal with the loss of Medhall when the sirens sound. I pack up my stuff, call Mom to tell her I'm going, then head to the rally point. Once I'm there, I find Armsmaster talking to Legend. Their conversation is short, and once Legend walks away I ask Armsmaster what I should do. He tells me to stay in the backlines and play support. I don't have any tech that can hurt Leviathan, and there are never enough capes that know how to heal. Glamorous? No. More important than trying and failing to hurt an Endbringer with my low-power armaments? Yes. Medhall even sent my stuff back as soon as the sirens sounded, along with the personnel most familiar with it.

I take a look at the results of three weeks of tinkering. Tinkering where I knew what I was doing, where I managed to work _with_ my stupid scattered thoughts to get projects ready for the field. The two multi-tool handles with a dozen different heads, waiting for injuries. A syringe gun and backpack of chemicals, ready to mix up nearly any combination of drugs a patient could need. A full body scanner that fits in one hand, the thing that ties it all together. The refitted anti-grav ring, now supporting half a dozen different guns that I can control from my helmet. I'm an even better shot when blasting from the eye.

All thanks to a Nazi.

Singer didn't know Mehall was a front. He didn't know that Max Anders was Kaiser, or that his company was systematically depriving people of service based on their race.

He did support the Empire though. He had gone to a few rallies, and a look into his internet browsing habits and criminal record showed a few things that made my stomach turn. He didn't know, but he probably wouldn't have cared if he had.

When I get to the medical tent Singer is waiting with Othala and Victor, talking with them in a somber tone. I meet his eyes. He has the decency to look ashamed. Victor looks between the two of us, comes to some conclusion, then slaps Singer's shoulder and walks away, Othala trailing behind him. I walk over to Singer and we stare at one another silently for a moment.

"I'm, uh," he begins, but I shake my head and he stops. I hand him one of the multi tool handles. He takes it gingerly.

"You know the most about this stuff besides me," I say quietly, moving into the tent and standing next to a table. "I don't know enough about how injuries work, and the scanner is still finicky." I look at him. "I'll need your help. If you need the tool's head changed out, let me know."

Singer nods and we wait for the battle to begin, for the injured to come.

It doesn't take long.


	35. Burst 1

By the time I arrive back at the beachfront where we had set up, Leviathan is long gone, leaving behind only carnage and seawater. The Search and Rescue teams are already on-site, picking up the people who look salvageable and leaving the bodies where they lie. I see a massive slab of concrete carrying a young girl in a black and red robe along with another cape in a bodysuit that appears to be made entirely of zippers touchdown nearby. The cape in the body suit disappears, then reappears next to a pile of rubble. Bits and pieces of rubble start teleporting next to him while other capes pile injured onto the the girl's ride.

I see three bodies. One's a shirtless, muscled teen, missing his head, the stump of his neck slowly leaking blood. Another girl in red and yellow has pieces of metal protruding from her abdominal cavity. The last corpse looks steamed, like boiling water burns but a million times worse.

There were more capes on this beach than lived in Brockton Bay. I could practically see reality peeling apart at the seams as the world was bent around them. Dozens of powers at work, the sand _flooded_ with constructs.

Flooded. I almost laugh.

What a poor choice of words.

Two parahumans look at me, one in black on white polka dots, the other in white on black pinstripes. After a moment they merge into one body that's equal parts both then walk over to me, body tilted forward and head craned back to look me in the eye.

"If you're on S&R, get to fuckin' work. Dragon can send you to the nearest folk, gotcha?" He points at the bracelet on his wrist and slaps my arm. "C'mon, ain't got the time to be standin' around."

"Containment," I say faintly, shifting my gaze from him to the mobile slab of concrete. It lifts off, taking no fewer than seven other people with it. Seven. In seconds. Levithan tore through seven people in mere seconds.

"Oi!" I blink and refocus. The polka-dot-stripe man is snapping his fingers in my face. Once I'm back to looking at him he points of into the distance. "The beastie's thata way. Ask the nice lady for direction if you can't hear him." He points to his wrist and taps the bracelet there twice. Right. Dragon. She'll tell me where to go. I turn to leave, but stop when I feel an hand on my back. I turn around.

There are two of him again, both looking at me.

"It ain't a laughing matter, lassie-" one starts.

"-but keep your head on your shoulders and you'll come out alive," the other finishes as they both nod in sync. They turn in the direction of the cape with the zippers, run over to him, and start digging through the wreckage alongside him.

I turn away and ripple my ribs, taking comfort in the familiar motion. Mask on, White Rose. I stilt up, start running, and heft the bracelet to my face.

"White Rose, I'm with Containment. Which direction is the battle?" I say, forming a shade over my head and wiping my lenses dry with a tiny brush of bone as the rain continues to pour down. After a moment a red arrow appears on the screen, pointing up and to my right. Good enough. I nod and push out more stilts, moving to the rooftops, trying to catch sight of the action.

I don't have to wait long.

Bursts of light bright enough to make the rain sparkle blaze through the sky in a dozen different colors. Massive lashes of water tear through the air, occasionally snuffing out a moving pinprick of light. I catch glimpses of strange constructs through the gaps in the buildings trying to hinder something big and green and _fast_.

I think it's Leviathan.

I throttle back on my speed a little, enough that I can turn on a dime. It's caution, just making sure I can avoid being pancaked. That's what I tell myself, and I keep telling myself that as I get closer and closer to the fighting, the sounds of which are growing louder and clearer. The sounds of water slapping against concrete, of water breaking concrete, of different Blasters scoring hits on the beast, of the discharge of tinkertech, of-

Then he rounds the corner. Big, bigger than Lung, and much more alien. Grey-green, with four eyes distributed unevenly on his face. He's hunched, more simian than reptile, with long arms and some surface-level damage across his body.

I move to the side out of instinct. Fear. Something.

It barely keeps me alive.

He flies forward far faster than something that big has any right to move, and I catch a glimpse of his hand striking out almost dismissively. I bring up a shield of bone on reflex, then gasp in _agony_ when it shatters and I'm sent flying back.

Pain. Actual pain, not broken bones pain. It feels like the ache in my legs after my morning runs, but _a thousand times worse_ and all over my body. My muscles, I think.

I just got hit so hard that _my muscles_ tore.

Then I crash into a wall and feel my backplate fracture and I'm awake again. Not awake. Aware. Damage control now. I fuse my skeleton together at the joints and suddenly I feel like I can move again. Good. Next step, control of my body. I shift my shell around to grab a ledge and _Jesus_ apparently moving muscles without actually flexing them _still fucking hurts_. I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming.

 _Why is this so much fucking_ _ **worse**_ _than a broken bone?_

I wrench myself to standing and push all the hurt down into a tiny fucking ball of hate and forget about it. I can still move. It hurts, but _life fucking hurts_.

Hookwolf was right. I could only take one hit.

I see half a dozen different people in costumes dash past me as I try to regain my bearings. Leviathan. Chase. Get some _fucking_ vengeance. I try taking a step. Pain. I weave bone into my muscles, a minuscule lattice that fractures a little every time I move it but keeps my muscles from tearing further. I take another step. Pain, but easier to manage this time. I sprint after the receding capes, extending more limbs and looking for the fight.

I am _not_ going to stop. Not from _one hit_.

I catch up with one of the slower capes and match his pace. He's in some home-made getup of blue biker leather and shards of mirror with a full-face mask, stepping on a series of small circular force fields that disappear behind him as new ones form under his feet, panting lightly as he bounces forward at a decent clip.

"Need help?" I ask, forming handholds on my back. He nods once then jumps onto me. I stumble for a moment, a few limbs fracturing under the new weight, but I grow more and get back up to speed.

There's a thunder clap followed by half a dozen eye-searingly bright beams flying down from the sky. I can almost make out Legend through the downpour, along with beams of scarlet and white that are probably Purity and Laserdream, as well as a few more esoteric colors.

 _There's the fight._

"I'm Springboard, with Containment," the cape on my back says. "You?"

"White Rose," I answer. "Same." I crawl us over a ruined building and catch a glimpse of the battle. Alexandria and what looks like a black skeleton are tearing gouges in the creature's hide while projectiles rain down upon all three of them, turning water into mist with an audible hiss even as the sounds of at least a dozen different projectiles drown out almost all other noise. I can see rents and scorch marks all over Leviathan's skin and places where black ichor flows freely.

I think he's losing.

" _Tidal wave incoming._ "

"Get close to me!" Springboard shouts from my back as two more capes group up near us, one a glowing figure that makes me think of a female tree-person from Lord of the Rings and the other a guy in a purple tunic with bandages around the lower half of his face. Four circular force fields pop up around me, forming part of a dome in the direction of the ocean. Another force construct grows between them, less like New Wave's creations and more like a time-lapse video of a plant growing, green and transparent and organic-looking, and the purple man lifts both his hands palms out towards the incoming wall of water and _oh shit bone bone bonebonebonebone-_

It hits and I feel fractures but no complete breaks. Thank God.

" _Heavy casualties, please wait_."

Oh hell.

I pull back the bone and assess the damage. Huh, I grabbed Springboard and the two people around me with tendrils of bone. Don't remember doing that. The force fields are still there and I feel Springboard struggling against his bonds. I pull the bone back in and he brushes himself off, nodding at me. The plant construct and tree-person are gone and I'm holding a naked woman in their place, who's clutching at her head as blood flows from her ears. A Breaker? Changer? The man in purple was at the edge of my range and I can see his right arm sporting a new compound fracture.

A broken bone. I can fix that.

I motion towards him, hands out. He looks up at me, eyes screwed up in silent agony. I point to his arm.

"I can fix that, you just need to let me-"

"Watch out!" Springboard shouts and four force fields appear behind the man in purple. I look just in time to see a horizontal bar of water crash into them, practically detonating as it impacts the fields. Enough slides under and around them that both purple guy and I get swept off our feet. I hear a feminine cry of pain from behind us before my head submerges.

After inhaling liquid, I push myself back up and hack it out of my lungs. The sounds are gone again, leaving only the pitter-patter of rain and the rumble of particularly massive blows. I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around. Springboard's looking me in the eye, tapping my mask with one hand.

"Good. You're here. Listen, if bone's all you have, switch to Search and Rescue." I feel my hackles rise at that, but he keeps going. "All you're going to do is fill the air with shrapnel. You didn't know that then, you do now. Look after these two," he says, pointing to a now-kneeling purple guy and semi-conscious naked woman, surrounded by fragments of bone. I blink twice, staring at the mess around me.

He's right. I'm not useful here.

"I'm going back to the fight," he adds after a moment, stepping up into the air onto one of his force fields and rushing off towards the sound of battle. _That arrogant little shit who does he-_

I shove it down. Fine. I can't stop Leviathan. Nursemaid it is. I thumb the button on my communicator and lift it to my mask.

"White Rose, switching from Containment to Search and Rescue," I say as I walk over to the man in purple and hold out a hand. He grabs it and pulls himself to standing, swaying on his feet. After I get a nod from him I head over to the naked woman, who still has her hands over her ears, but is slowly getting back up. "You okay?" I ask and she winces, hands going to her ears.

"Quiet place," she whispers, barely audible. "Place to rest. To change." Purple guy walks over to her and covers her with part of his cape, giving me a pointed look as he does so. Right, time for the Rescue part of Search and Rescue. I start growing limbs, tall enough that purple guy has to crane his head back to look at me. After an awkward moment I grow a set of stairs that lead up to my back.

"We don't have all day," I point out, and he nods in agreement. Slowly, oh so slowly, he helps the naked woman up the steps. Once I've grown a harness around her and the guy in purple has a solid grip on the handhold I pushed out, I stilt up to the rooftops and head towards the PRT building, looking for the triage center. It's pretty easy to find, what with all the brightly-dressed people flying in the same direction towards it. I start moving, trying to keep my gait even for the sake of the people on my back. I'm not sure how well it works out, but inside of ten minutes I'm there.

It's a madhouse, but an organized one. A thousand different sounds clamor over one another. Boots splashing through water are overlaid with the distinct noise of at least three different types of teleportation and the howl of something big and canine. Somehow I can still make out shouted orders through the din. Movers are arriving and departing rapidly, each one dropping off the wounded and picking up hale capes from their own designated landing pad. A telefragging countermeasure? That structured organization is actually a problem since I haven't been assigned a space, so I'm forced to stand around awkwardly waving a tendril of bone at nearby EMT's. Eventually one of them notices the fifteen foot bone monster with the two injured on its back and comes sprinting over.

"How bad?" he asks, motioning for the guy in purple to come down.

"He's got a compound fracture and she's got something wrong with her head. Power based, I think. He doesn't speak," I add and the doctor nods, water spraying from his hood.

"Can you get them down?" I nod and make stairs again. Once they're off, I shift down into my knight's armor and tap the unbroken arm of the guy in purple. He pauses and looks back at me

"I can fix your arm," I repeat, pointing at the awkwardly bent limb. The EMT and guy in purple exchange looks, then skeptically turn to me. I make a rose in my hand and hold it up. "I can shape bone," I state. "Mine and any I can see. I've worked with Isidis before-"

"What the hell are you doing out there?" The EMT interrupts, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me away. "The healer tent is over here!" I barely resist the urge to _lacerate him for his disrespect_ , and instead dig in my heels and shake off his hand.

"What are you talking about?" I ask. "I can cover distances quickly and make barriers. So what if I can fix a break?" It's not like that's so impressive. You still need to cut people up for it to work, and Isidis needs to make sure my bone grafts actually take. The EMT stops, pinches his nose, and takes breath. I flex a rib in irritation. _Yes, condescend to a cape at an Endbringer fight, that can only end well._

"There are a lot of Movers and Shakers," the EMT states slowly. "Capes that can help people? Nearly zero. Victor is just a really, _really_ good surgeon, and he's one of the top five medically-oriented capes in the North East. Othala? The only person I've seen with a power even remotely close to true healing, and I've been to seven of these. So when you tell me that you can fix shattered limbs on a level that _Isidis_ found _useful_ , forgive me for being a little short. We've got a lot people who can carry bodies," he says, eyes going tired for a moment, "And not a lot who can fix them."

We stare at each other for a second, two people still in a storm of activity. Then I grit my teeth and nod. I'm just behaving optimally. Prioritizing. It's not the _sickening_ fear of Leviathan that keeps me from walking away. Not the knee-weakening relief at the thought of staying away from the fighting, from the messy bodies, from attacks that _actually hurt_.

I tell myself that and I still feel like a coward.

"Lead the way," I say, quiet enough that I can barely hear it over the rain and the rush, quiet enough that the shame in my voice gets washed away in the cacophony.

"Less talk, more fixing people," the EMT says, turning away and motioning towards the two white flaps. "'C'mon, no rest for the wicked." I stifle a retort and follow him into the medical tent, leaving the chaos behind me.


	36. Burst 2

The inside of the tent smells like copper and has far fewer screams than I expected. More shouting though, and it feels less like a funeral parlor and more like the shop on its first frantic day of business.

"I need a unit of AB blood!"

"Next person!"

"I can't fix this, wait for a better healer."

A pair of twenty-somethings with power washers and mops are desperately trying to keep the floor clear of gore. Operating tables are spread out across the room with at least one person in a costume by each. I see Othala manning two on her own, switching between each patient every few seconds while Victor barks commands to the orderlies around him at the table next to her.

"Take her to Sanguine to be cleared of potential contaminants, the danger is over for now."

"Wake up, wake up!"

"I need another bucket of hash!"

Kid Win is working with a pair of people in lab coats, three small cylinders floating above a man's open chest cavity, light glinting off the humming metal. There's a cape with red hair and skin that looks like it's made out of scabs standing next to a pair of people in domino masks laying down on stretchers, tendrils of blood flowing from him into each of them from his outstretched hands. In the background I can see half a dozen teams of conventional surgeons hiding their own patients from view behind translucent curtains.

"I've got a cape who can fix broken bones!" the EMT shouts. I shake my head, pushing back against the sudden sensory overload. Right. Helping people. Why I came here.

"Broken ribcage over here," one of the surgeons at the back of the tent shouts. "Can they fix that?" I have a flashback to the time I spent volunteering at the hospital. Yeah, I can fix that.

"Show me the bones," I say, leaving the EMT behind and weaving through moving bodies to get to the table. "I need line of sight on everything, along with all the pieces." Isidis could just graft in replacements, but I haven't see her in this tent. I'll need to find her at some point, see if she-

"Patient got thrown into a wall and broke all the ribs on her right side and several bones in her right arm," the surgeon says, disrupting my train of thought and bringing my attention to the cape on the operating table. She's a girl not much older than me, with her costume cut open and skin peeled-back to show some gently-bleeding meaty bits. "There are splinters of bone in the surrounding flesh. We've picked out most of them, but-"

"Not a problem," I interrupt. "Hold the bones near one another." I've seen this before. Not this exact fracture, but this type of injury. It sounds (and is) bad, but I also figured out a way to fix them. The surgeon shoots me a glare but complies, pressing the two fragments of the highest rib on her left side towards one another, close but not touching. Perfect. I reach out and _pull_ , willing the solid bone to flow like liquid. Tiny bits of white leak out of the surrounding tissue and the separated parts of the rib, fusing the break together. I'm not sure if all the bits are actually a single whole, but it's good enough for now.

"Not sure if the fix is perfect," I caution. "I usually have Isidis check it over." Don't want people re-breaking these because they weren't properly healed.

"Less talking, more fixing bones," the surgeon says, hands already holding the next two fragments close. I grit my teeth and _pull_ again. Same shit, different location.

Eventually, the girl's rib cage and shoulder blade are in their proper shapes again. She gets picked up and dragged away, another person replacing her. I settle into a rhythm with the surgeons. Find the broken areas, fix them in order of most to least serious, send them to somebody else for faster healing, get another patient, repeat.

I don't always fix them fast enough. A man in a white robe and domino masks stops moving as soon as they put him on the table, and halfway through straightening his femur the lead surgeon shakes her head and pulls me away. Another time it was a semi-conscious Changer, partially made of metal, and no matter how hard I _pulled_ her spine wouldn't change. They gave me three tries, and after that I kind of...

Stopped thinking so hard.

Bone. Melt. Reshape. Make right. Right-er. Focus on the most damaged parts. Follow the surgeon's instructions. Wait for another patient.

There are two hundred and six bones in the adult human body, but every patient I see has the same three injuries: limbs, ribs, and spine. That's probably because anyone with a skull broken by _Leviathan_ isn't getting back up, and any fractures in the smaller bones are something for better healers than I to worry about.

Working at the hospital felt like what I imagined a fast food job would be like. Banal, with brief moments of activity but generally low-effort and low-engagement. It paid the bills and it wasn't hurting anyone, but I'd never be happy there.

This?

That same level of fulfillment, but with twice the panic and more urgency because every second someone was here in front of me was a second they weren't fighting Leviathan, a second where a hold up on my end might mean that a heavy wound turns into a fatal one. It's a special kind of hell that would make me sick to my stomach if I hadn't pushed all of the vomity parts of my mind so far beneath the bone that I couldn't feel them anymore.

I keep working, patients keep coming, and rain keeps pounding against the top of the tent, a constant reminder of what precisely is responsible for all these broken people.

* * *

Eventually, I make a mistake.

"Fuck, that is _not_ how a knee is supposed to look!" a surgeon shouts, snapping me out of my daze. He's right. It is, however, a perfect tulip blossom.

There's another impact on my shoulder and I turn to look down at the source. The head surgeon has green irises. I didn't notice that before.

"Can you undo that?" I nod, then look back to the knee and fix it. When the patient gets taken away, I feel a tug on my arm. It's the head surgeon again. I follow her and end up in a slightly-quieter corner of the tent where she pulls down her mask and looks me in the lenses. She has a smattering of freckles across her nose, crows feet, and the corners of her lips are turned down in a slight frown.

"How old are you?" she asks. I stare at her. She can't be serious. She snorts. "Fine, what level of school are you in?"

"...high school," I say quietly. The head surgeon sighs and rubs her temples.

"Fucking- okay. I need you to take a break." When I start to protest, she raises her hand. "Apapap, none of that. Right now you're wiped out mentally, and that's only going to do bad things to your patients, who are also my patients. Go out, get coffee, get something to eat, and relax as best you can for at _least_ ten minutes. I don't want any more slip-ups, okay?" After a moment of hesitation I jerk my head up and down. "Now get," she says, shooing me away. "Trust us grown-ups to handle things for a minute."

The urge to _hang this presumptuous bitch by her own spine_ is positively feeble and I manage to get it under control without so much as a finger flex. I'm just too fried to put in the effort. Instead, I turn around and exit the tent, stepping around a pair of EMT's carrying a stretcher between them.

For a while I just wander in the rain among the tents, taking in the frantic action and furious movement, the sea of desperation and manic energy. I'm not entirely there, but I manage to keep out of the way of everyone. At some point I end up under a pavilion where half a dozen people in raincoats try to keep food and beverages flowing between different groups of clustered capes.

"I'm getting bad vibes from that plan, man, you gotta not do that y'know?"

"Okay, so we're thinking too hard right now, how do we get Leviathan-"

"Dead doves! Dead doves everywhere!"

"More bad vibes!"

"Oh hell, does _anyone_ have _anything_ concrete for me?"

"Schrodinger won't die today, barring interference from the individuals who can't be predicted."

"I'll be sure to tell him not to be worried about anything other than _the fucking Endbringer_!"

I move past the capes bickering around a bank of computers and head for a table covered with food. One of the attendants sees me and immediately loads up a coffee carrier. Once I'm within grabbing distance he shoves it into my arms.

"There's a tent for non-Thinkers that way." He points to the left and I follow his eye. Yup. three capes, sitting or standing under a covering, barely out of the rain. I grab the carrier and walk over to them. Listening to circular arguments isn't going to help me get my head back in the game.

It's a strange group. One of them is dressed in expensive-looking street clothes that hang off him in a way that I assume is supposed to be fashionable, smoking a cigarette as he reclines on a trio of chairs pushed together to create a makeshift couch. A dozen indistinct shades surround him, the same blue-grey as the ashes on the ground next to him.

Another cape is pacing clockwise around the perimeter in long, even strides. A dead white overcoat with mud stains nearly up to their knees conceals their gender. Some sort of morph suit derivative covers their head completely, and as they pass I notice that there aren't any openings for the eyes or mouth.

The third is a nervous wreck, hugging his legs to his chest and pressing his chin into his knees. The dollar-store first-day-out vigilante costume that he probably threw together at the last possible minute is covered with dried mud stains, and the balaclava that's supposed to be protecting his identity is pulled down around his neck, his entire head sticking out through the mouth hole. He's got brown hair and a boyish face that's at odds with his otherwise mature frame, and I think he'd be kind of cute if not for the miserable look on his face and the trembling shoulders. I recognize the type from some time I spent in the pediatric ward. Short breaths, long exhales, tight eyes, and a gaze that's focused on something other than what's in front of him. The look of a child getting ready for their shots, or for surgery, or for something that the kid knows is going to hurt.

"Café," the guy on the chairs moans, making a grabby motion with one hand at me. I pause for a moment, then walk over to him, stepping between the shadows and getting a better look at his face. He's got a pair of snowboarding goggles around his eyes and his hat pulled low, with his hands folded neatly on his stomach. The goggles are glowing slightly, so I assume it's tinkertech of some sort. I leave the cup just out of arm's reach on the ground and move on to the person circling the tent. "Puta," he groans, but the words don't have any malice in them, and when I turn back to glare at him he inclines his head slightly before lifting the cup to his face and chugging away.

I decide to move on and walk over to the striding person to offer them a cup. They take it without so much as a thank you. Rude. They hold onto it in silence for a moment, still walking, but eventually I see their arm come up to their face. No mask change though, so the fabric must be liquid permeable?

I'm distracting myself from the crying elephant in the room. I grit my teeth, turn around, and head over to the last person. When he doesn't look up at my approach, I nudge his shoulder with the half-empty drink carrier. He startles, almost upsetting the remaining cups, but a few spikes of bone in the right places stop his error from compounding. Once he's got his breathing back under control he looks me up and down, eyes wide and jaw open. I shake the container.

"Coffee?" I don't know what to do. I never talked to Amy about helping people through emergencies, or how to deal with shock, or anything close to counseling. So this? Not a situation I should be trusted with _at_ _all_.

On the other hand, I'm the only one here that seems to care.

He nods and takes a cup, holding it between his legs in both hands. I stand by awkwardly for a moment, then _violently_ shatter a rib to _get my ass in gear_ and sit down next to him, forming a bone chair that places me on roughly even level with him.

The silence isn't. The rain is deafening, echoes of esoteric abilities carry over from the frontlines, and there's the constant splat of the person in white's boots.

"How-" the boy stops. I wait for him to continue. He makes a few noises, then smacks the side of his chair with his hand helplessly and whimpers. "How do you do it?" I take a sip of coffee. I never liked the taste before I became a cape. I blame Amy for getting me hooked.

"Do what?" I ask. Lie to my father half a million different ways every day I see him? Fight people who have a good shot at killing me and are known murderers? Maintain a shred of something that, if you squint and have a particularly profound disdain for the literal meaning of words, could be called neutrality? _Manage to fuck up one of the easiest jobs in the world because I got fucking_ _ **tired**_ _?_

"How do you deal with the pain?" I blink. "I mean, how do you go back to it? Like, I thought I'd be okay 'cause a guy shot me once and I walked it off pretty easy but I tried going after Leviathan and I got thrown into a wall again and again and again and it just..." He shakes his head and sips at the coffee, grimacing. "It was _bigger_ than getting hit with a forty-five. Like my whole body was _wrong_ for a second. I can take it, I know that." He's rambling now, not really talking to me. "I tested a lot of stuff, figured out what I could get away with. Turns out that's pretty much everything. Fell off a skyscraper once, y'know?" He tries to make it a joke. It's not.

Another silence.

"I don't like getting hurt." It comes out as a whisper. "Is that wrong?"

I almost laugh. Almost. Instead I take a deep, shuddering breath, hold it, and let it out.

"No. It's not." He looks at me. It's a fragile gaze, one that's equal parts scared and hopeful, craving affirmation. Not one I should be trusted with, but one I have to respond to. "I don't think you should be forced to get hurt. I don't think we should be here." He doesn't react to that, but the guy in street clothes is looking at the two of us now. "This is a job for people who know what they're doing. For heroes who don't think twice before they act." People who wouldn't want to get paid for healing. People who don't have to suppress the urge to slaughter their former friends. I look down at my coffee. "I'm not one of them."

"¿Entonces dónde están?" Street-Clothes is looking at me, leaning forward with both hands resting on his thighs, white knuckled. He makes a show of looking around, shading his eyes with one hand, then lifting both hands helplessly.

"I believe she means the Protectorate." The person in white's voice sounds staticky, like it's coming through on an AM radio frequency. I twist my head to look at them, but they're still pacing. Street-Clothes shakes his head, eyes still locked on me, the glow of his goggles brightening slightly.

"Ellos no son héroes. Son una pandilla que le agrada a la gente." My Spanish was never great, but I can decipher enough to get the gist and shake my head.

"I don't mean the Protectorate. They get paid to do what they do. It's their job to stop crime." I pause, trying to get my thoughts in order. "I mean people like Vikare. People who tried to be heroes before anyone else knew what that meant. Like, going out there?" I point towards the city. "That's extra. Way extra. We shouldn't have to fight that."

"¿Quien es Vikare?" Street-Clothes looks towards the person in white.

"The second parahuman. He was never a member of any official team," they reply. Street-Clothes pauses at that, then looks back at me, leaning into his chair a little.

"¿Enserio?" he says, a note of surprise in his voice. I meet Street-Clothes' gaze and resist the urge to duck my head.

"Random, fucked-up people who have no idea when they're really in the right shouldn't be called on to do public service. Maybe it'll work out for a while, but eventually they're going end up in a situation that they can't deal with, one that forces them to choose between what they want and what's right. And they'll make the wrong choice." I take a sip of coffee. "On the other hand, you're right. There aren't a lot of heroes around."

"Somos los unicos." The words are flat. I nod in agreement.

"I don't know about you, but I wouldn't trust me with this." I form a bone spike in my free hand, sharp and fast. The boy next to me shivers a bit and I wince internally. Damn. "On the other hand, I can't give it away and I can't make it hurt less. So I found a way to make it do what I want anyway." I form the spike into a rose. I've spent so much time working with flowers it's practically second nature by now, but there's still something pretty about the process. Something soothing. "I hurt every time I use my power. So I made the hurt useful. I work with what I have. We don't have heroes. I do have this." The rose turns back into a spike.

"...so what should I do?" The kid's words draw a bark of laughter from Street-Clothes.

"Lo que quieras, niño." I don't remember enough basic vocab to understand what he said, so I turn towards the person in white.

"He says to do what you want, and I am inclined to agree." They stop pacing and look at the boy. "Feel free to ignore our advice. We are not good citizens." Street-Clothes snorts and goes back to laying down on the trio of chairs even as White Coat resumes their walk. "On the other hand, we did show up. There are worse people to emulate."

"Cabo entrando." One of the shades flickers out, revealing a man in some sort of black desert robe and jet black sombrero, positively soaked. He stumbles for a moment before shaking his head, shedding water left and right.

"Cuttin' it a little close there amigo," he says, his voice a tad more clipped than I think someone talking to a friend would be. Street-Clothes waves his hand dismissively, then holds it out for a high-five.

"Mi nombre es _Snapback_ , gringo," the other cape (Snapback?) says, still just as apathetic as when he called me a bitch. The man in the desert robes nods reluctantly and slaps Snapback's hand. Another ghostly image springs up roughly where he's standing, and Desert Robes walks up to White Coat.

"How much longer am I good for?" White Coat looks him up and down once, unnaturally still while they examine the other cape.

"Seventeen minutes. Near the end you'll experience decay on the effect. I recommend not being mounted." Desert Cloak snorts.

"Don't need to tell me twice." He stomps the ground twice and a massive horse erupts from the mud, at least ten feet tall and made of what looks like solid shadow. The cape in black staggers for a moment, then steadies himself and motions at the beast. It kneels, huffing in irritation as he mounts up. After it stands, he tilts his hat at the two of us.

"Ma'am." Then he's off, a positively bloodchilling whinny tearing its way through the night. I watch him go for a moment, then turn back to the kid.

"What have you been doing?" I ask. He chugs the rest of his coffee, then puts his feet on the ground and squeezes his knees with his hands.

"I heal. Really, _really_ well." I nod. If that's it, then he doesn't really- "They were cutting pieces of me off for some... pool. Filled it up with a lot of body parts, then sort of" — he makes circle with his hands — "cut it up. A girl went in and started healing people." He takes a breath and leans back. "They were flushing it out, preparing for a new batch that has the right mix of _stuff_ again and I" — he shudders — "I needed to take a break." I think I can hear the mucus in his nose.

Oh.

I finish my own coffee, thinking about the time I provided tissue for Isidis when Triumph was injured. Then I take away my pain tolerance.

That'd be a problem.

"Can you do it?" I ask. He shudders, then stands up.

"It's what I've got." He pulls up his balaclava then nods to me. "Thanks, um?"

"White Rose. Yours?" I stand up and absorb my chair back into my armor, then step next to him. He barely reaches my shoulder.

"I don't really have one yet." Hmm. Healing, no costume themes, afraid of pain.

"Dorian." He thinks about it for a moment, then nods.

"Dorian." He extends his hand and I take it. It feels strange, like foam wrapped around steel. I pump it once, then let go.

"Come on. There's work to be done."


	37. Burst 3

I find an EMT and send them to the main medical tent with the message that I won't be coming back. I have no idea if this is anything close to the correct procedure (if there is such a thing for Endbringer attacks), but leveraging cape synergies is probably more productive than just assisting regular surgeons. Then I follow Dorian to another tent, this one with a pair of PRT troopers at the main entrance and a truck near the back. The troopers give us a nod as we pass between them, and I return it, taking a moment to really think about what they do. Regular people, wearing body armor rated to help them survive maybe a few gunshots at most and armed with rifles that don't do more than tickle half the threats they face. And once they're done fighting villainous capes, they come here to offer assistance against monsters that _Alexandria_ has reason to fear. Plenty of parahumans don't show up to these things. It's not a sign of weakness: it shows that you have a healthy respect for your own life. Sure, the heroes shouldn't skip out on an Endbringer fight, but it's not mandatory they attend.

Endbringers are above and beyond the call of duty. And the PRT, the vanilla humans, _are still here_.

They're far braver than I am. So brave it makes me sick.

Then we're past them into the tent, where the scent of blood and meat is overwhelming. Dorian shudders for a moment but keeps moving, and I start breathing shallowly, trying to smell as little of it as possible. There's a man in a white suit who's so pale that he has to be a cape standing next to an industrial-grade inflatable pool, and when he notices our entrance he nods once to the both of us, a distinctly creepy smile plastered across his face. The smell tickles a memory, but I can't quite-

"Hey. Funny seeing you here," Amy- _Isidis_ says, putting on a forced-looking smile that's a little too tight around the jaw as she waves at us from a plastic lawn chair in the middle of the pool. She's positively caked in gore, with small blood splatters on her face and red coating her from the neck down. Whatever costume she's wearing, it's going to be _ruined_ by this. In fact, I can't quite see any fabric at-

I slam a pair of shutters closed over my eyes even as I turn away. "Why are you naked?" I ask, flexing my torn muscles because _maybe screaming out in pain would be less mortifying_. Beside me Dorian groans and the pale man laughs.

"Took me a while to get used to it too," Dorian mumbles. "Anyway, she's-"

"Going to explain this set up on her own," Isidis interrupts. "Now quit being a prude and get next to the pool." I reluctantly pull back my blinders and slowly step after Dorian, taking care to look in any direction other than Isidis's.

"Okay, you remember the pit where we worked on Triumph, right?" Isidis asks, shaking one arm and flinging droplets of blood to the ground. "Think of this as a bigger version of that. I'm naked because my power operates on touch. By exposing as much skin as possible and slipping and sliding all over someone while we're surrounded by processed dead people, I can fix big things way faster." There are still a few small puddles at the bottom of the pool. I think I can make out flaps of skin. "The problem is getting the necessary material. The boy here-"

"Dorian," he interrupts, drawing the gaze of the other two capes. "She called me Dorian," he says more quietly, pointing at me. I sigh internally. "It's my cape name now." Isidis rolls her eyes and Alabaster snorts.

"Why yes, name yourself after a fag's delusions of grandeur. I'm sure that doesn't have any unintended implications," Alabaster says sarcastically. I blink.

"You've read The Portrait?" I ask incredulously. Why would a Nazi read the works of one of England's more famous gay authors? Shouldn't they be focusing on Nietzsche and stuff?

" _Dorian and Alabaster,_ " Isidis says, voice louder and more commanding than either of ours, "are two Brutes that can regenerate fast enough to be useful, and while Alabaster here doesn't feel pain we can't just feed him into a woodchipper over and over again."

"Indeed," he says, adjusting his suit jacket. "My body is adept at taking harm, but not that adept, and while the two of us can certainly supply a sufficient volume of flesh, the issue lies with transforming our bodies into paste of an appropriate consistency. Most parahumans with powers capable of doing so are out there" — he points towards the entrance of the tent — "attempting to fight Leviathan."

"At any rate, we need a better way to turn them into material and I ran out of my normal mash after the first rash of casualties." Amy continues. I nod in understanding. When Brockton General began asking people to volunteer their corpses for her use, there was nearly a riot. Things have gotten better since then, but there's a reason Isidis can't just fix everyone who comes in to see her. "Anyway, you're here now," Isidis says, twisting her neck and letting loose a sickening series of pops. "I'm still running out of bone faster than anything else, so if you could feed the meal some calcium that'd be great."

"Where are the troopers?" Dorian asks quietly, looking around. Isidis winces and Alabaster turns to face the boy, smile still just as unsettling as when we first walked in.

"They refused to continue cutting me after you stepped out for your rest. They felt" — he waves his hand in the air dispassionately — "disturbed, even though I assured them that I myself do not feel harm." There's a bite in the words aimed at Dorian that makes me want to _test how little pain he actually feels_. Then he pulls out a distressingly large knife and twirls it in his palm. "I sent them for an axe with which we can take turns butchering one another, though if you have a better plan I'm more than open to it."

"Oh," Dorian says, deflating next to me. Damnit. This is exactly the sort of demotivating shit that I was trying to undo. Isidis shrugs and waves her hand dismissively at him.

"You're a kid. Chances are one of them is a parent or an older sibling. Hurting you would bring up all sorts of bad images. It's not your fault," she adds, cracking a small smile. It's fake though, and Alabaster just rolls his eyes, tugs up a sleeve, and slits his wrist. Blood spills out in small jets, joining the puddles at the bottom of the pool and slowly beginning to fill it. Despite the lingering smell there isn't enough material left in it to pack a gouge the size of a few fingers. I can only imagine how busy Isidis has been.

"While your attempt at levity is appreciated, it doesn't solve the problem," he says. His flesh flickers and the knife strikes down again, renewing the cut. "What about you, Miss Rose? Any ideas?" I shake my head and point my arm at the pool, away from Isidis.

"Nothing off the top of my head," I say, starting the rippling effect I used when I had to fill up Isidis's pool at the hospital and _oh God that hurts too much stopstopstop!_ Argh, _why does it hurt more now!?_

"Are you alright?" Isidis asks. I shake my head and regain my bearings.

"I'm fine. Just... wasn't prepared," I answer. There are a pair of bone spikes stabbing into the ground, holding me up in a sort of slouch. I try to lift myself up and wince. Right. Shredded muscles. Isidis is leaning over the edge of the pool, one hand on my mask and the other waving in front of my eyes.

"Not prepared for what?" Isidis asks. Alabaster scoffs.

"Much like _Dorian_ here," Alabaster says, mockingly stressing the other cape's name as he slashes his wrist again, "It appears that White Rose does not share my pain tolerance."

"Wait, so your nerves are still connected to your bones?" Isidis asks, looking at me incredulously. Behind my mask I grimace. Crap. The one person who might care.

"Not sure about that, but I do feel my bones. It's not a big deal, the bigger problem is that Leviathan hit me and it messed up my muscles. All I need to to do is hold still and-"

"Yes this is a big deal!" Isidis says, grabbing the sides of my head and dragging me around to face her. "Were you in pain when you were giving me strips of bone while you were volunteering? What about all the stuff in your shop? Did that hurt to make? _How long have you been hurting yourself to use your power!?_ "

"Since day one," I hiss, getting my feet under me and pushing her arms away. "It's fine. I just need to get used to the muscle thing and-"

"You're walking around with torn muscles?" Isidis interrupts, looking me up and down incredulously as realization slowly dawns. "No. You're not using your muscles. You're just puppeting yourself with bone. You're making it worse." I grit my teeth and suppress a growl. She's just worried, and if I explain why it's _not a problem_ we can get back to figuring out how to help people. _Now shut up and listen_.

"Yes, moving hurts, but I don't need to move to supply you with bone. Now if you could please step back so I can just-"

"Jesus _fuck_ ," Isidis says, bringing both of her hands to her face and groaning. "Just because you can stand something doesn't mean it's a good thing. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell someone?" she asks, spreading her arms wide. "Being in pain all the time _is not good for you_ -"

" _And what would you have done_?" I snap back, clenching my fists and standing ramrod straight. I'm towering over her now, leaning forward and trying to convince _this little wretch that_ ** _I_** _._ ** _Am_** _._ ** _FINE_**. " _How would you 'fix' this_?"

"Painkillers!" she says. "Therapy! Fucking meditation! Seriously, you're basically cutting yourself every time you use your power! Do you think that isn't going to mess you up? I don't know enough about the long-term effects of that sort of stuff to actually say anything with absolute certainty, but it's not going to be _fucking-_ "

"This is neither the time nor the place for this discussion," Alabaster interrupts, face smooth and placid, a sharp departure from his previous amusement. Both of us stop talking long enough to glare at the the worthless scum _who would dare stick his nose in our business_. His politely disinterested expression doesn't change as the knife flashes and more red spills from his arm. "White Rose, would you be able to enact a similar level of destruction on my own limb? If I were to tourniquet my arm I suspect that we could create enough biomass to keep this pool filled for as long as necessary." I think about it for a moment, then stomp on the ground and start extending bone. Two, no, four legs for stability. A cylinder, tilted down into the pool, filled with teeth and blades, wide enough to fit an entire torso, nevermind an arm. I don't know what a wood chipper actually looks like, but this should be good enough for now.

"Excellent," Alabaster says, shucking off his suit coat and rolling his sleeve all the way up to his shoulder. "Now, if someone would be so kind as to find a hose?" He looks meaningfully at Dorian, who's eyeing the contraption I've built with no small amount of fear.

"I'll... I'll do that," he says, stepping backwards then spinning around and practically sprinting out of the tent. I feel a hand on my shell and turn towards it. Isidis is glaring at me.

"When this is all over, we're going to talk, and you're going to tell me more," she says, her voice low and hard. I recognize the tone. It's the one she uses when she needs to boss around people who aren't listening to her, right before they get man-handled into medical restraints.

I don't like being on the receiving end of it.

"Fine," I say, wrenching my arm out of her grasp. "We'll talk later." I push down the sick feeling in my gut and start fiddling with the wood chipper, trying to pretend like there isn't a naked girl standing next to me with a mixture of hurt and worry on her face, like I'm not acting out of fear. She stands there for a moment longer before stepping back into the pool and plopping herself back down on the lawn chair to continue glaring at me.

I almost say something. Almost try to reassure her, try to justify and explain.

I don't have the words for it.

Instead I turn away and think about the problem. Isidis said she needed more bone in the meal. In order to avoid forcing her to search around in the soup for little flecks of calcium, I should probably provide some more. I start forming a tube below the main feed to shoot pellets out of before withdrawing it. No, it should be mixed into the main slush. Maybe detachable blades? Those could be a stabbing hazard for her though. Nubs then, ones that grind and tear. It'll hurt whoever's sticking their arm in there more but hey, Alabaster said he didn't feel pain. Also, _fuck him_. I warp the inside of the tube, making the tooth placement irregular and hollowing out the bases even as I start tweaking the internal structure to compensate for the lack of cutting power. Gears, maybe? I add toothed mashers to the end and give them an experimental crush. Yup, that stings, but not unreasonably so.

I keep changing the device as the silence in the tent becomes truly oppressive. At some point Alabaster switches to cutting off his fingers and starts humming to himself. He's actually pretty good at it; I can tell it's an actual piece and not just something off the cuff.

"Got the tourniquet," Dorian says, jogging back into the room with a loop of fabric and a buckle. "The nurse showed me how to use it so-"

"That won't be necessary," Alabaster says, snatching the thing from Dorian's hands and slipping his arm through it. "I know how to hurt myself."

"Applying a tourniquet isn't necessarily harmful," Isidis says, stretching her arms above her head. "It's primarily used to keep people from bleeding out." The dried blood on her skin cracks and flakes, and she absentmindedly starts rubbing it off, exposing her-

I cut off the thought and turn back to the wood chipper. _Focus_. I almost break a rib.

"It is harmful when I use it," Alabaster says flippantly. He tugs a few times on the buckle to check the tightness and nods. "White Rose, if you would be so kind?" he asks, gesturing to the wood chipper.

I take a deep breath, let it half out, and start shifting the teeth around. It's slow at first as I get each individual tooth extending and retracting in time to create the illusion of movement, then I speed them up once each protrusion is in motion. I wince at the brief flashes of pain that accompany the collision of the teeth as a rattling noise starts coming out of the cylinder.

"What's that sound?" Dorian asks, standing a good two arms lengths away from me.

"Bone shards," I answer absentmindedly. "Don't worry about it. Alabaster, you're up." Time to see if this works.

The pale man puts his arms into the _the teeth are already snapping off in bits and pieces more bone more bone more bone!_ I grow blades and teeth to replaces the ones that snap as they get caught in the meat of Alabaster's arm even as I hear the wet tearing sound of flesh being cut. Dorian goes a little more pale as I feel bits of arm fall down the tube and _splat_ into the pool. Okay, so this is a little more difficult than I thought it was going to be but-

"Can you get it smaller? This stuff is more 'cubed steak' than 'pink slime'," Isidis says. I turn to give her a flat look. She holds up what I think what used to be part of Alabaster's hand. "Also, can you stick your chest in there or something? This isn't going to be much use unless I'm only healing arms," she adds, looking between the two of us.

"No I cannot," Alabaster says as he examines the red, shredded stump of his left arm. A _flicker_ , then it's back to normal. "I suspect he can though," Alabaster adds, looking towards Dorian as he shoves his arm back into the cylinder. I turn to stare at Dorian, head slightly cocked.

"What. . . _is_ your power?" I ask. Alabaster's set up a rhythm of his own now. In, one second of shredding, out two three four. Like a metronome. It's oddly relaxing. Dorian fidgets in place, then sighs and pulls down the hood of his balaclava, mussing his dark hair with both hands as he groans.

"I don't know how to explain it. It's like... Okay. Imagine a soap bubble. If you coat a pair of scissors in soap you can put the blades through it without popping it, right? Same thing with me," he says, miming a chopping motion at his arm. "Goes right through. The bubble never pops, but, uh, I still feel the pain. Still splatter blood everywhere if I jump off the Chrysler Building."

"But can you regenerate your organs?" Isidis asks, leaning against the side of the pool as small flecks of gore spatter her leg. Dorian nods reluctantly, going tense for a moment then relaxing.

"If you could make another thing, I could get in there," he says quietly. I meet his eyes with a lump in my throat. Mincing Alabaster hurts. I don't want to make another one. I don't want to help this kid hurt himself. On the other hand, not shredding him would be hypocritical on a level that would make me have an aneurysm on principle alone. I helped him get up the nerve for this, now I need to help him follow through. Needs outweigh wants.

I almost laugh.

And since when have I gotten what I wanted?

"Give me a moment," I say, sticking out my other arm and forming another wood chipper. This time the feeding tray is wide enough to take a whole body, the cylinder is as tall as he is, and I make the blades a lot thicker. I form a pair of handles near the top, along with a ladder to allow him to get up to the entrance. I see him hesitate for a moment, locked in place while he contemplates the size of the thing, but it doesn't stop him from metaphorically girding his loins and moving towards it.

"Hey!" Isidis says and he freezes, turning towards her with wide eyes. She motions to his lower half. "Pants. Remove them. I don't want to be picking threads out of people once you're done with this." Despite myself I chuckle at the sudden blush that covers Dorian's face, and apparently Alabaster finds it amusing as well because I hear a full throated laugh over the sound of grinding meat.

"Don't worry, she does this to everybody," I say, turning politely away and forming shades over my lenses. "Tell me when you're ready." I start spinning the blades up to speed and try to think of something motivational to say. Then I give up and settle for something that I know works. "Some advice: think about who're you're trying to spite or what you want the most in life. Use those to handle it."

"Thanks." The words are muttered but not ungrateful. Good enough, I guess. There's a rustle of cloth on cloth, followed by the sound of flesh slapping against mud, and I feel the pressure on the rungs as he climbs to the entrance of the wood chipper. When I don't feel the sensation of flesh on bone, I drop the blinders from my eyes and look at him. He's naked save for the balaclava around the lower half of his face, and he's perched on the edge of the cylinder, gripping each handle as he stares into the whirlwind of blades. For a moment I think he's going to back out, to tell us to find someone else to feed the pool and settle with not being able to fix organs. Then he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and mutters something in a language I don't recognize. A prayer or a curse.

His eyes open and he slides into the blades.

Then the screaming starts.


	38. Burst 4

"Next load coming in!" a PRT agent shouts, holding open the back flap of the tent as EMTs carry stretchers towards the pool. "Two critical, three paralyzed."

"Place them near me and pull these guys out," Isidis yells back, spread-eagled and rubbing her limbs over four nearly-insensate naked people like she's trying to make some sort of snow-angel in the soup of blood, bone and flesh. "Internals and bones are done, last things left are scrapes and bruises." A little bit of the slurry slips down her throat and she starts coughing. "Bleh! A little less chunky, please!"

"I'll try," I hiss between my teeth. "Also, why don't _you_ make multiple garbage disposals of murderation next time?" I like Isidis. Really. _But I can't be held responsible for what happens to her if she tells me to adjust these fucking_ ** _pain machines_** _one more time!_

The EMTs carefully step over the edge of the pool, glancing towards me nervously and staying well out of my reach. I hazard a glance at my armor. Hey, frilled spines again. _Down_. I pull the bone back in, but by then the EMT's have already picked up the mostly-healed people and Isidis is back to doing her gore-angel thing. I don't blame them. None of the normal people seem to want to stay in here for long, and the few lucid capes that end up in the pool aren't any different, hauling themselves out as soon as they're sure they won't fall apart.

Maybe it's the hash of body parts they find themselves nearly-submerged in. Maybe it's the naked teenager. Maybe it's the pair of macabre bone devices beside me constantly spewing forth waves of meat and blood as it tears into a pair of regenerators.

 _Or maybe it's the fucking_ ** _singing_** _!_

"Germany was having trouble, what a sad, sad story," Alabaster sings out, punctuating the end of the stanza by shoving his arm into the blender. Not quite an orchestral accompaniment, but since he doesn't regenerate constantly it doesn't affect his speed much.

"Needed a new leader to restore its former glory!" Dorian manages. I'm not sure how he's capable of forming coherent words _when_ _I'm trying to turn his lungs into a fine mist_ , but apparently this is one of the only songs the both of them know. He's the one who started this actually, and I let him because it was better than the screaming.

Now I'm being forced to reconsider the wisdom of that decision.

"Where oh where was he?" Alabaster calls, a note of despair that is one hundred percent genuine in his voice. "Where could that man be?" Maybe he knows it's supposed to be satire. Maybe he doesn't. Either way, his musical palette is limited primarily to German composers, songs about Germany, and Death Metal, so the rest of us have to work around that.

"We looked around," Dorian groans, barely audible over the sound of his tearing flesh, but I think I can make out a glimmer of amusement in his voice, "And then we found . . ."

"The man for you and me," the two sing together as I mentally brace myself for the chorus.

"AND NOW IT'S SPRINGTIME, FOR HITLER, IN GERMANY!" Isidis belts out, _shockingly_ tunelessly. "DEUTSCHLAND IS HAPPY. . . AND GAY!" How a lesbian, a Nazi, and a nearly-new cape reached _this_ song as a compromise I'll never know, but apparently Isidis likes The Producers? I also have to assume that she's intentionally butchering the melody because _how else_ could she be so out of tune? "WE'RE MARCHING TO A _FASTER_ PACE! LOOK OUT, HERE COMES THE _MASTER_ RACE!" Hell, she's even missing notes entirely. Dad sings in the shower with more precision.

I count patiently to ten, timing it to coincide with my breathing. Two patterns, twice the relaxation. When that doesn't work I _almost_ shatter a rib. Almost, because when I suddenly stilled during the first rendition of 'Guys and Dolls' Isidis figured out _why_ and started glaring at me in a way that expressed disappointment, sorrow, and pleading, all at the same time and made something sick well up in my throat. Then the first few patients started arriving and I decided that their treatment took precedence over me blowing off steam.

That, and I found another outlet.

Alabaster slaps his woodchipper twice. I'm on deck. I form a cylinder over the pit, festooned with teeth. A bar runs parallel to it, with long, flexible strips of bone almost touching the cylinder itself. A music box, of sorts. Amazing how versatile bone can be.

"COME ON GERMANS! GO INTO . . . YOUR _DANCE_!" Isidis finishes with all the theatrical pomp of an eight year old at their first school play, and I start spinning the tube.

There is literally no way for any of us to tap dance in this scenario. Even if we had the shoes, solid ground to step on, and the time in between patients to do so, none of us know how. So instead I improvised and made this during an argument about whether to do a Phantom song next or literally anything else. Once I assured Isidis that flexing bones doesn't hurt nearly as much as breaking them (and that by "hurt" I meant "tickled aggressively"), she stopped worrying and began heckling my song choices. Since this was immediately after her murder of Sandy's lines in You're The One That I Want, I decided to listen to Dorian's appraisals of my performances instead.

The end result is a semi-continuous rhythmic clattering that kinda-sorta sounds like the original tap dancing. Honestly I think it's terrible, but this gets me out of singing and I somehow doubt that anyone's going to be critiquing the flat nature of the notes. No one involved in this particular production seems to care, at any rate. I mean, we're down three different voices for this as it is.

"The Fuhrer is coming!" Dorian calls out. Oh boy.

"The Fuhrer is coming!" he says again, unaware of what disaster he's about to unleash. We never did figure out who precisely was going to be the number one most hated man in history. I assume Alabaster is going to want that role.

"The Fuhrer is coming!" I send a quick glance to Isidis, who's also dragging in a breath. The people around her are more or less healed, so she can afford to fuck around like this.

And just as both the pale man and the healer are about break out into song and shred this fragile truce of ours...

"Heil my- _self_." The voice sounds like it belongs to a chronic smoker six weeks dead from miner's lung. Its owner doesn't look much better. "Heil to _me_." An old man, withered and grey and looking less like a person and more like a sack of bones wrapped in elephant skin slowly stands up in the pit, eyes covered by a now-bloodstained white blindfold. "I'm the _kraut_ who's out to change our history." He rolls his shoulders, kicks his leg _all the way to vertical_ , and clears his throat before spitting, the black phlegm flying clear across the tent. "Heil myself, raise your hand." He _cartwheels_ out of the pool, one long arm reaching down to the ground and the rest of him spinning out in a light spray of blood. "There's no greater dictator in the land!" His voice grows deeper and healthier as he walks towards the entrance, muscle filling out his frame as I watch. "Everything I do, I do for yooooooooou!" he finishes, no longer old, no longer withered, holding the note until the tent flap closes behind him.

For a few brief moments, the only thing that can be heard is the slap of Isidis's limbs as she applies dead meat to weakly moaning bodies and the wet churning of Dorian's insides.

"Well, I don't think I'm capable of topping that," Alabaster interrupts, generating another meaty splat to emphasize his point. "Do you two know something other than show tunes?"

* * *

We graduate to Top 40 songs (which Alabaster takes no part in), and when an unusually blase PRT agent comes in with a small laptop and a foldable table we set up a playlist of karaoke videos, relieving me of the pressure to provide musical accompaniment. If it wasn't for the constant stream of gravely injured naked people and the occasional solemn silence as an EMT pulls an unmoving corpse out of the pool, I could almost enjoy it. That, and Dorian's bitching about the lack of sufficiently obscure artists, Albasters dark comments about 'jungle music', Isidis's insistence of being the lead in _every other goddamn song_ -

We're all feeling the pressure. It's just manifesting differently for each of us.

When a Ward died, Dorian started missing lyrics. It wasn't much, not compared to the near-complete lack of skill Isidis has, but it was noticeable. He also began to sound less in pain and more...

Lost.

Alabaster's the next easiest to read, actually. He doesn't seem to care much for basically anything, but seeing one of the Valkyrie capes come back with her stomach torn open shook him. A lot. Dorian tried to talk to him, and in return he got a stream of verbal abuse. Since then his arm has been in and out on a steady beat, once every four seconds, precise enough to set a watch by.

I think Isidis is coping the best. At the very least, she's around the same as she was at the beginning of the fight. She's still singing poorly, still scooping guts into people and sending them back out onto the killing field. Part of that must be experience, hard-won from attending more Endbringer fights than most people can name. During one of her bathroom breaks I ask a PRT agent if she knew how many Isidis had gone to.

"I've been on-duty three times when the sirens sounded," the agent says, helmet off and a cigarette in her hand. Leviathan's still fighting but the number of capes arriving to help has dropped substantially. Hell, some have gone back home. Tinkers with wrecked gear and people who just signed up for something out of their depth. "The Protectorate shows up every time, even when their powers aren't going to do shit versus what they're fighting. That girl over there," — the agent points across the open field to Isidis, who's stepping into a food tent clothed in a hospital gown — "is the only independent cape I saw all three of those times."

I thank the agent with a rose and went back into the tent, staring at the congealing blood in the pool and inhaling the sticky smell of fresh meat. I see the indents in the mud where my wood chippers were anchored, the trampled area where Alabaster was standing, and the path the EMTs stomped into the ground as they went in and out, the boot prints deep from the extra weight of the patients.

I put myself in the EMT's shoes, imagining the scene unfolding. Rain pouring down, breath coming in pants as they attempt to move quickly but smoothly, trying to strike the balance between getting the wounded to healing as fast as possible and not aggravating injuries any further. Then they push back the tent flap and see four people, two of them kids and the other two freaks, singing show tunes as blood and gore pour over one of their number. Wounds that are supposed to never heal completely vanish in seconds under the ministrations of a naked teenage girl, the worst singer of the bunch, and over the sickening sound of blades slicing through bodies a ragged harmony can be heard.

It sounds like something out of a bad horror movie.

"Donut?" Amy asks, startling me out of my trance. She's standing at my side, a pink cake donut with sprinkles extended towards me. Dorian is polishing off a maple bar while Alabaster reclines in a lawn chair flipping through a thin volume with a title in German. I look from the pastry to her, and take it. She has some odd metal caps on her fingers, pointed and dull. I wonder what they're for?

"How long until we're needed back?" I ask in between bites, not bothering to try and control my mask. If it looks creepy, it looks creepy. Not like that's going to actually stand out here. Amy shakes her head.

"They need us back as soon as we're ready, which means 'don't do something stupid like burn yourself out'. I'm ready here," she adds, turning towards the other two. "You guys?" Dorian swallows the last of his treat and nods.

"Soon as White Rose sets us up again," he says, stripping down. This time he doesn't bother waiting for anyone to shield their eyes. He looks nice enough, I guess. Muscled but not obscenely so, with more definition than Dad's dockworker friends. I hear the snap of paper on paper and turn in time to see Alabaster folding his coat around the book.

"Once more into the breach," he says, rolling up his sleeve and sliding the tourniquet to the midpoint of his bicep. "Though I don't suppose it'd be too much to ask for a little bit more control over the musical selection?"

"It is too much to ask," Isidis says, peeling off the hospital gown and sitting with her legs crossed in the center of the pool. She motions towards me. "Paste them, please." I shake my head and step forward, pushing out bone and mentally bracing myself even as Isidis uses her currently-clean hands to queue up another set of songs.

The blades start whirling, meat starts mashing, and a new song comes on. One that's a little more somber than the near-carnie levels of cavalier the previous ones were.

I don't think any of us mind.

"Woke up in London yesterday, found myself in a city near Piccadilly, Don't really know how I got there."

* * *

We give a lot of repeat performances. Capes with powers that make them difficult, but not impossible to hurt, who are in a strange grey area between Alexandria and Alabaster in terms of durability make up most of them. I choose to believe that the ones we don't see a second time have learned to avoid getting injured.

Others are short-range Blasters who shoot from far enough away that Leviathan's water whips don't cut them in half but close enough that he can still reliably hit them. Ballistic stays stoically silent while his pulped leg gets rebuilt and Crys- _Laserdream_ shows up gasping for breath with most of her chest caved in. I don't _think_ the man who died in that particular group of patients would've survived anyway, but Isidis...

She got more tense after that.

The rarest group of capes are the famous ones. I don't think any one of the main eight capes that appear on the Protectorate recruitment posters ever show up in the pool, even the ones without Brute ratings. I don't know whether that's due to being important enough to be seen by better healers, the efforts of their fellow capes trying to keep the leaders alive, or raw experience and survivability standing the test of time.

It's an encouraging thought, so I focus on that while the others sing, focus on the idea that there are capes out there who don't die to Leviathan or the other Endbringers. Capes who can face the most dangerous monsters on the planet and come out unharmed.

It's an encouraging thought until it's not.

During a rush, when the pool is nearly full, a cape in what looks like a modified blue and black limo-driver outfit _appears_ in the middle of the room accompanied by a thunderclap. Off his shoulder hangs a limp and terrifyingly familiar form clad in blue and white.

Legend. The leader of the Protectorate. Maybe one of the top ten most dangerous capes in the world, with more charisma in his left toe than almost any other parahuman I've ever met, including Kaiser.

And he's barely breathing.

"He needs healing!" the cape says, striding over to the pool and gently sliding Legend into the meat. The cognizant patients who are capable of moving shuffle away from his still form. The hero's limbs are askew, tilted at angles that I recognize as _more_ than broken, with a floppiness to his chest that brings bile to my mouth.

What _happened_ to him?

"I need his costume off!" Isidis says, one of the only people not stunned, still slathering meat onto other patients. "Until that's gone I can't do anything!" I break a rib. No time to be shocked. No time to be awed.

 _Move_.

I leap over the side, a knife already growing out of my arm. I hear a squawk of alarm from some of the other people there, but Isidis also speaks up, something indistinct and high-pitched. I'm not paying attention. A wafer-thin blade slips under the collar of his costume, then grows as I push mass into it. I can't afford to try again. No broken slivers, no second chances. I drag my arm down, slicing open his costume from neck to groin. Isidis is beside me almost immediately, one hand going to his chest and one to his neck, a handful of hash in both. I keep cutting, peeling the man out of his suit as Isidis tries to put him back together.

Then I take a closer look at her hands.

Her fingers are jabbed inside him, _yanking open_ the hero's chest as she shoves meat into it. When I look up his neck is no better. I blink, almost messing up my cut along his pant leg as I see her _peel back some of Legend's neck_ , a slush of blood coming out before she fills it in with flesh.

Oh. That's what the metal caps are for.

I toss the remnants of Legend's costume out of the pool, shakily reemerging and turning the new piece of information over in my head. I mean, it makes sense. To get to the deep-tissue injuries, she'd need to get access to them. Touch access. In the hospital, she probably has a team of surgeons for that. Here, the volume is so high she can't afford to. That, or they get prepared for it ahead of time when they come in as part of the stripping-down process. It makes sense, but now I know that she's had to stab at least half of the people she's healed here, and she hasn't so much as batted an eye at it.

"Fixed. Go to the nurses station and have them rouse him," Isidis says, lifting Legend and pushing his unconscious form back into Strider's hands. "Now get." Another thunderclap and he's gone. I look the empty space where the two heroes used to be, the adrenaline finally catching up with me.

Is that it?

"Can you start the blades again?" Alabaster asks. "I think you left Dorian in something of a jam." A hissing wheeze escapes the massive tube and I turn towards it. There's a pale hand sticking out of the top, waving at me. Right. I have a job to do. I get back out of the pool, forming treads on my feet to counter the light coating of blood on them. I try starting the wood chippers again. No dice. I check my connections. They've snapped. I must have forgotten to extend them when I jumped into the pool. I groan.

"I'm going to need to pull them apart," I say, crumbling away the edges of the one surrounding Dorian. "Broke my connection, which means I can't manipulate them as freely." Inside, Dorian's stabbed full of heavy blades. I start pulling them out, and as soon as he can actually move his arms he helps. Alabaster snorts.

"Well, back to mincing myself, I suppose," he says and once again the knife comes out. "Now then, how is the battle going?" The question is addressed to one of the cogent patients, a young Asian woman who's standing up and crossing her arms to try and preserve her modesty.

"No idea, this is my first fight," she says nervously, flinching away from the spray of blood from Alabaster's wrist. Then she looks down at her now flat-as-a-board chest with something like shock in her eyes. "And, uh-"

"Listen, we've got man meat and not much else," Isidis says, slapping the breastless woman's thigh sympathetically as horror dawns on the older woman's face. "After the fight I'll give you back your tits, just like how I'll give some other women back their ovaries. Survive, alright?"

"O-okay," she says, stepping over the edge of the pool and looking around. "So, where can I get some clothes?" Dorian's finally pulled himself free and takes a moment to work the stiffness out of his system, then points to the side of the tent.

"Hospital gowns and domino masks there, then head out and to the right. Look for a group of capes arguing, and a PRT agent will get you a generic bodysuit-"

The rest is cut off as a spear of light the length of a car phases through the wall and pins Isidis to the ground.


	39. Burst 5

I'm moving before I consciously recognize what just happened, nearly slipping in the mud as the tread on my boots fail to catch. I fix that by growing them longer and sharper as I sprint for the wall, ready to _rend the life out of the_ ** _maggot_** _who_ ** _dared_** _to attack what is_ ** _mine!_**

The tent wall is a plastic-y sort of cloth that parts easily as I spear into it, ripping open a tear wide enough for me to lunge through, head snapping from side to side. _Where is the_ ** _walking_** **_corpse_** _?_ I see another spear of light flash out and pull myself to the side with my shell, barely dodging the projectile. _There they are_. I start sprinting, barely registering the panicked noises and gunshots going off around me because _they didn't try to kill_ ** _Amy_** _!_

The **_walking_** **_corpse_** is a naked woman with long black hair, small enough to be mistaken for a girl. Next to her is a naked man, bald and muscular, with folded arms and face set in a savage grin. _They_ ** _both_** _get to die, then_.

The man notices me first, tapping the girl's shoulder and saying something I can't hear over the rain and distance. I see her stamp her foot and send out one more lance of light before jumping onto the man's back. He starts sprinting towards the city and further away from me, moving at an inhuman speed. _Oh no you fucking_ ** _don't_** _!_

I put on the gas, but I'm not going to catch them before they get to the line of buildings. I don't like my chances of keeping track of them in that rat's nest, so I improvise. I form a javelin of bone in one hand even as I gauge the distance between us and start timing my steps, figuring out angles and optimal push-off points. _Have to get this right._

I shift my stance, take a few more steps, and _hurl_ as I bring my foot down. I never stop pushing out bone, trying to impart as much power as I can into the spear right up until I fracture my last connection to the projectile. I keep shaping it, adding grooves to spin it and fins to keep it on course as the white thunderbolt cuts through the air and _slams_ into the back of the girl/woman, disrupting the man's gait and sending them both tumbling to the ground.

 _Now to finish them off_.

By the time I reach him the man has risen to his knees and is trying to push himself all the way up, a task made more difficult by _the corpse pinned to his back_. The spear tip is lodged deep, right by the lungs, which explains the splatter of blood on the ground in front of him that grows larger with every wet cough that escapes his mouth as he struggles for air.

 _Good_. **_Suffer_**.

He looks up as I move in front of him, a grin with too many teeth to be human crawling across his face.

"You're too late," he taunts. "We already got you fuckers-"

The rest is cut off as I stab him through the eye with a needle of bone, expand, and _spin_.

He twitches once, then stops moving.

 ** _No one_** _attacks what is mine_.

The girl shuddered, coughing up blood. I watch dismissively as she lifts her arm weakly, a lance of light slowly forming in it, pointed at me. _No_. I flick out my other hand and a blade of bone slices out, opening up her neck. Blood wells, then slows, and her hand drops again, the light dissipating into nothingness.

 _None of that_.

I sprint back into the camp, eyes narrowed and searching for more targets. None present themselves, but the bundle of Thinkers is now smaller and surrounded by PRT agents. The medical tents are in disarray, spilling forth patients and personnel alike as chaos reigns. I can see craters in the sand where projectiles have landed, and the Mover landing pads are in ruins, the previously well-organized reception teams now stomping all over the spray-painted circles and walking through caution tape without a care in the world.

What the hell happened?

Eventually I get back to the tent, PRT agents parting before me as I re-enter through the front of it at a dead-run. Isidis is inside the pool patching up her stomach, grimacing weakly all the while. I pause at the door, relief washing over me and weakening my knees. If that spear had hit a little bit higher it would've cut her heart in half. A bit more than that, her brain.

Isidis is lucky. That, or she has someone up above looking out for her.

She looks up, locks eyes with me, and jerks her chin.

"Get over here," she shouts. "We're going to need some more raw materials soon." I nod dumbly, puppetting my limbs with bone to stumble over to the edge of the pool. No rest for the wicked. The three PRT agents in the room back away as Alabaster re-applies his tourniquet, uncharacteristically quiet. I get the wood chippers back online, Dorian slides into his, and soon enough the pool is filling up again. A load of patients comes in and Isidis goes back to making gore-angels, replacing gaping wounds with mended flesh.

As the process restarts, a PRT agent steps up next to us, rifle held across his chest and finger outside the trigger guard.

"We're informing all capes about the relevant details of the attack," he says, slow and stiff, as if he's reading off a teleprompter. With the amount of tech that must be packed into that helmet, that could very well be the case. "Receiving this message does not mean you are a special target, nor does it mean you will receive special treatment." Well, this doesn't sound good.

"After being forced away from the main group, Leviathan disappeared downtown. As our Thinkers and Dragon attempted to locate him, a nearby construction site collapsed, taking several capes down with it. After the main group had re-engaged Leviathan, a Thinker noticed movement in the debris and decided to remotely investigate. A large, monstrous parahuman erupted from the rubble and proceeded to flee the scene. Since then, numerous Search and Rescue capes have disappeared with their tracking bracelets failing to register them as missing."

"That brings us to this attack. Several of the parahumans participating in the assault exhibited powers similar if not identical to the missing capes. This in conjunction with testimony from a source close to the parahuman in question has lead us to believe that the new parahuman, codenamed Erinye, has a Master/Trump power of some sort which lets her control parahumans and adjust their powers."

I feel myself go cold at the trooper's words.

Did I just kill _heroes_?

No. They attacked first. Unprovoked. I was just defending others from future assaults. With prejudice.

"Who did they get?" Isidis asks as she lathers a ragged chest wound with slime, interrupting my train of thought. "Any big names? Anyone who could level the city?"

"Any parahumans can level a city if they're smart enough," the trooper says tightly, off-script for a moment before returning to his original tone. "A full list of missing parahumans is being compiled as we speak, but we can assure you that none of the Triumvirate or Protectorate Division Leaders have been caught." His posture relaxes and he leans back on his heels for a moment. "For now, Leviathan seems to be backing off. The people with the speed to stay on him are going to keep trying to damage him, but everyone who's less mobile is forming up around here and settling in for a siege." He twists his head from side to side. "Erinye and all the capes that have sided with her are considered kill-on-sight targets, so weapons free." Alabaster nods as the PRT agent leaves.

"I do hope they'll let me borrow one of their guns," he muses idly. "It's been a while since I really cut loose."

"Oh yeah, the low-tier regenerator cutting loose," Isidis deadpans. "What are you going to do, bleed more aggressively than normal?"

"No, I was thinking I'd shoot them in the head from a hundred feet away," he says as he turns to look at me. "You slew the ones who tried to kill Isidis, didn't you?" Fucking- does he have a Thinker power or something?

"They hit her first. That made them fair game," I say, spinning the blades _a little more aggressively_ in Alabaster's wood chipper. It doesn't faze him at all, unfortunately.

"So there's another Endbringer?" Dorian asks. The sudden spike of fear in the room is a physical thing, like a cold, slimey blanket.

"Not even close," Isidis says, slapping a recovered parahuman on the ass when they don't get out of the pool fast enough. "They'd have told us if it was an S-Class threat. Worst case scenario, Legend takes a minute off from hitting Leviathan to turn the new cape into a grease smear and we never have to hear about them again."

After that things quiet down. At least, for a certain measure of 'quiet'. There's a brief spike in warm bodies needing colder flesh as the casualties from the ambush pour in followed by a long stretch of peace, presumably to let the capes who are trying to fight the new monster regroup. When injured do come by, it's only three or four at a time, and we're really not seeing any new types of injuries. Just more broken bones and ruptured organs.

* * *

When shit goes south, it goes south fast.

A trooper storms into the tent, a rifle in each hand and bandoliers of ammunition slung across her chest.

"We're moving out," she says in a tone that will brook no disagreement. "A Certain Indefinite Didact and Mercury Haberdashery are detecting an incoming group of parahumans. Not ours," she adds. She holds a rifle out to Alabaster. "Do you know how to use this?"

"Oh yes," he says, taking the gun and examining it, nodding contentedly as he runs his fingers over the sides. "I believe I can work with this," he adds as he unclips the tourniquet from his arm. A moment later his coat flickers and it's back on his arm and buttoned up, once more in place rather than hanging loose. The agent looks at the bone cylinder holding Dorian.

"What about you?" she says, voice slightly raised. I shake my head.

"He can't answer you right now," I say. "Give me a minute." I close my eyes and pull the bone wood chippers back into myself, my armor becoming coated with blood and meat as I reabsorb the bone. Dorian slowly emerges from the woodchipper, finally stumbling out once he's no longer filled with blades, a pained grimace on his face.

"Why are we stopping?" he asks, looking around curiously. Isidis is already out of the pool, biological material sliding off of her to reveal long, bare legs and-

I _snap_ my attention back to the PRT agent, who's holding a rifle out to Dorian. He's eyeing it like it might bite him. Alabaster sighs and walks over, picking up the rifle and pushing it into Dorian's hands.

"Come now, I'll show you," Alabaster says, doing something with his hand next to the barrel as he holds his other hand out towards the trooper, who deposits two belts loaded with magazines into it. "Shooting is the easiest thing in the world with guns as nice as these," the white man finishes, pulling a still-naked Dorain out through the tent flaps. I raise an eyebrow as I watch them go. Powers of a feather, I guess. I turn back to Isidis, who's once more clad in a hospital gown, her hair held back by a scrunchie. She jerks her chin towards the agent.

"Come on. Let's go," she says, striding forward. I follow as she passes me, leaving behind the pool of gore and the torn-up sod of the tent.

Outside it's chaos, but organized chaos, in a way that reminds me of the landing pads earlier in the day. Black-clad PRT troopers usher capes from place to place, moving with purpose and managing to stay out of one another's way. Different colorful figures are also coming in and out of the periphery of the camp, slowly draining the population. It's dizzying to watch, like putting my face right next to an anthill, and the noise is near deafening as orders, calls for help, and the cacophony of movement all overlap into something halfway between the roar of a stadium and the rumble of a freeway.

"ETA on Strider is two minutes, taking ten people!"

"Do _not_ send Thinkers out with Scarlet Circle, her power interacts _very_ poorly with enhanced perception!"

"Listen, if you're scared of dogs you can fucking _wait_!"

"A-1 capes to Pad 5!" a plain-clothes police officer shouts into megaphone, pointing it up and at an angle to avoid deafening passersby. "That means healers and Thinkers, you know who you are and you know who you aren't!" Isidis starts pulling me that direction, barely making any headway through the crowd.

"That's us," she says, shouting to be heard over the crowd. "Come on, let's go!" She pulls me forward only to come to a sudden halt as a line of EMT's carrying injured between them cuts us off. I growl behind my mask and step close to Isidis. _We don't have time for this!_

"Hang on," I say.

"What-" the rest is cut off as I sweep her up into bridal carry and stilt _up_ , tall enough that I can step _over_ the whole mess. I stick to two legs, pushing and pulling bone into myself to adjust my center of gravity and maintain my balance. I get a few stares as I literally walk over people, but not any more than the various fliers streaking above us do as they transport everything from medical equipment to insensate patients.

"There," Isidis says. I look down and follow her pointing arm. "There's the landing pad." A post with the number 5 is sticking out of the ground, a group of parahumans already gathering around it. It only takes a few steps to get there, and when we reach it I gently let Isidis slide back to her feet.

"Sorry about-"

"It's fine," Isidis says, flashing me a small smile. "If I had a dime for every time Vicky did that I'd work for free." After taking a moment to steady herself, she walks up to a nearby agent and clears her throat.

"Isidis. I can graft dead flesh to people and make it take perfectly." The trooper holds up his finger for a moment, then waves her through before motioning to me. I step up to him, trying not to loom too much.

"White Rose. Bone manipulation, anything visible, and I can project more of my own," I say. He holds up his hand for a moment.

Then he shakes his head.

"You're on the long list," he says, pointing away from the pad. I stand there, looking into his blank faceplate.

Huh.

I guess I'm not that important.

"No no no," Isidis says, stomping up beside the trooper in a spray of mud and water. "I need her to chunk material for healing. Without her I'm basically useless." I nearly laugh at that. Anyone with a sufficiently destructive power should be able to pulp people for her, and the right type of regenerator is more important than that anyways. That, and she doesn't need either of them anyway, just a corpse, the knives on her fingers, and some time. She grabs my arm again and tugs. "Come on-"

"Ma'am, she's on the long list because she doesn't have a power critical to the battle against Leviathan and what she does have lends itself to fighting capes," the trooper interrupts, placing an arm between us and looking down at her. "We're trying to get everyone out before they approach anyway, but-"

"Fuck that!" Isidis spits, slapping away his hand. "Listen, she comes or I don't!"

"Isidis," I say. Her head whips around, hair plastered to her skull and cheeks, an almost angry look in her eyes. "I'll catch up, okay?" I say, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze. "I mean, he's right. I can handle a lot, and there are more important capes who can't. It's like triage, right?"

"Triage is for prioritizing the wounded, not deciding who gets left behind!" Isidis snaps and now she really _is_ angry, hands clenched into fists and teeth bared. "Don't give me any of this self-sacrificing utilitarian _shit_! You can heal, you can help, now-"

"Tee-off in one minute!" a feminine voice calls out. "All passengers please get on the ball!" The trooper looks meaningfully at Isidis, who spares him a withering glare before punching me in the chestplate lightly.

"Don't die," she hisses, the water on her face shining in the floodlights. Then she hugs me. After a moment of not knowing what to do with my hands, I wrap my arms around her too.

"I won't," I promise as I let out a small snort. "It'd be anticlimactic if the girl who killed Lung on her first night out died to an Endbringer." I feel another impact, this time just above my liver. Again, soft.

"Don't tempt Murphy like that," she mumbles before pushing me away. On impulse I reach out to her ear and form a flower, the stem tangling in her hair and the petals gently snapping off my armor as I release them. A hibiscus. She fingers it for a moment, looking at me with an odd expression on her face.

"Think of somewhere sunny," I say, putting what little cheer I can into the words. "We'll grab a meal somewhere outside later."

"Thirty seconds!" the voice calls out again. Isidis shakes her head, then walks up the hill without replying to join the group of five capes at the launch pad. Once they're all within a circle spray-painted on the ground, a stocky woman in a neon orange shirt, khaki shorts, and a plain white domino mask motions at four of them, and at her gesture an opaque sphere pops into existence around them. She picks up a golf club, takes a few practice swings, and then strikes the ball. There's a loud shattering sound, like metal striking glass, and I see the wake in the rain and clouds as the sphere disappears into the distance.

"White Rose?" I look back at the trooper, who's pointing to a group of people at the other end of the encampment. "Head over there. They'll figure out where you should wait." I nod, and stilt back up into the rain.

* * *

"Melee, ranged, or other?" the agent asks curtly when I finally reach the front of the line.

"Melee," I say. "So where-"

"Over there," he says, pointing to a clump of capes idly standing around at the far end of the clearing. "Next!" he shouts, motioning for me to get out of the way. I shift to the side, shoving down the irritation and _urge to cut him for his insolence_ and head towards the gathering.

I recognize Snapback, the cape in white, and the black cowboy-hat cape. There's also a small parahuman in a domino mask and heavy leather duster decorated with feathers who nods once as I approach. She looks even younger than I am.

"Hello," she says, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain. The part of her face that isn't covered by her mask is spotted with acne, and she barely comes up to my shoulders. Snapback cranes his head towards me, arms crossed and baggy clothes looking even less practical now that they're soaked through. The cape in white stops their pacing for long enough to turn completely towards me.

"White Rose, was it?" they ask, staticky voice somehow carrying more clearly through the rain. I stick out my hand.

"Yeah. We saw one another earlier," I reply. They look at the hand for a second, then back at me. Black cowboy barks out a laugh.

"Yeah, Whiteline don't care for the courtesies of us regular folk," he says, walking over to me and giving my open hand two quick pumps. "Name's Gaucho." He lets go of my hand and points to Snapback, then the new cape. "That's Snapback, and she's-"

"I can introduce myself," the girl snaps, a little fire entering her voice. Gaucho raises his hands in feigned surrender, smiling as he backs away from me. "I'm Big Game," she says, looking me in the eye like she's daring me to comment on it.

I don't.

"Nice to meet you," I say, extending a hand to her as well. After a moment of surprise she shakes it, squeezing a little harder than she needs to before walking back over to her spot by Snapback. Gaucho chuckles, shaking his head.

"Don't take her personally, wouldja? Little miss there doesn't much like anyone," he says, slapping me once on the back. I manage to bite back a _threat to him and his life to match his disrespect_ , and settle for a frosty silence instead. "Now come on, let's put together a game plan," he says, moving to form a half circle next to Big Game. After a moment, Whiteline stands across from him, leaving enough room for me. I steel myself, step forward, and close the circle.

"I will begin," Whiteline says, hands behind their back, inscrutable as ever. "I am a Five by Six Trump who specializes in temporarily manipulating the boundaries of powers. Snapback and Gaucho can attest to my effectiveness." The other two capes nod, Gaucho's face solemn and Snapback's too covered up to tell.

"Master/Blaster. I shoot things I've killed," Big Game says, holding open her hand. A fuzzy wire-frame of a bird appears in it, with what looks like ice filling out the middle. "If it breaks I don't get it back."

"Saben que hago," Snapback says dismissively. Gaucho rolls his eyes.

"The boy taps people, makes ghost copies of 'em, and can call back the real McCoy anytime he wants," the older man drawls. "Got a whole toolkit set up with Whiteline here. I make horses," he says, shifting his tone to something more serious. "Lotta little ones or one big one, and I make 'em outta this inky black stuff that only I can touch, 'less Whitey here gives me a tweak." There's a pause, and after a moment I realize it's for me.

"Bones," I say belatedly. "I can project mine and shape ones I can see outside my body." Whiteline nods, then pulls off a glove. Underneath is a scarred hand with crooked fingers, no nails, and flesh that looks both partially melted and partially torn, apparently left to heal in a way that strikes me as _wrong_. I'd almost think it must have been intentional, but the scarring is so haphazard I can't possibly imagine _why_ they would mutilate themselves this way. It's not pretty or deep or expressive. It's just _nauseating_.

I manage to keep my feelings from showing on my mask. I think.

"Let me see," they say, static hissing with something that can only be excitement.


	40. Burst Interlude

On Earth Bet, there's a comic book about a superhero without superpowers. It's hopelessly optimistic, ridiculously whimsical, and ignores its own rules constantly, but it exists nonetheless, achieving no small fame. It imagines a mortal man standing equal to titans who can shatter planets, bring their imagination into reality with nothing more than a thought, and travel through _time_. This man keeps up using a mixture of technology, basic intelligence, and author fiat, but he has a seat at a table meant for demigods. A voice.

A peerage.

Those sorts of comics fell out of favor in the mid-nineties, partially due to a resurgence of interest in pirate stories and partially due to growing uneasiness about capes. Nonetheless, people continue to talk about that hero, about how this fictional being would match up against the real life heroes who fight in the streets so they can sleep in peace at night.

I had always laughed at the thought, the idea, that a mere man could walk alongside such fantastical beings and be taken seriously. That someone could simply _work_ their way to success without any help, without receiving inspiration from above or assistance from a higher power. Not divine intervention or a blessing from the muses, but the more mundane type of advantage. A nod from a superior where one may not have been deserved, or being chosen over a slightly more qualified applicant because of some imaginary X-factor. No, I believed that true ascension, _real_ power, needed help.

As time went on, those laughs became a little more bitter. The top was lonely, yes, but it was also barren, an empty field with no one to boost me higher. The work never let up, a constant barrage of problems and trials that all needed mundane solutions too complex to automate, none of which let me develop anything _new_. I plateaued, my credit waned, and now I reside in a corner office with a ceiling firmly stuck above me, and no matter how hard I slam my head into them the walls remain firmly in place.

I have peaked.

Now I think about Batman and I scowl.

A man among gods.

Ridiculous.

* * *

 _Alexandria Down, JK-11._

I can feel the defensive line shudder at those words as the rookie capes too young to remember the end of Hero learn for the first time that yes, the Triumvirate can be hurt. Some of the veterans also hesitate, the ones who haven't stared at death so many times that the phenomenon has lost nearly all meaning, and I watch as they try and fail to brace themselves for the inevitable spike in difficulty.

We're faltering. Someone needs to step up, to _do_ something. Legend is in the air however, and Chevalier is too far back to make it in time to prevent the fragile morale of the group from collapsing completely.

I may not be the best option, but I'm the one who's here.

I step forward and _cut_ , burning a line into Leviathan's thigh, only barely avoiding the relaitatory water whip. A spear thicker than a redwood and longer than an eighteen wheeler shoots out above me courtesy of Menja, stabbing into Leviathan and pushing the creature back, if only for a moment. Fortunately, that's all the opening Dragon needs, and a salvo of missiles unloads onto the beast, sending it into an awkward stumble as several tons of tinkertech slam into it loudly enough that my helmet shuts off the external audio feed. The beast trips, falls into the water, and disappears.

I want to pursue. I want it bad enough that it hurts to _not_ fire a grappling hook up to the corner of a building, lift off, and try to get visual on Leviathan again. It hurts that I have to twirl my halberd dramatically, plasma blade turning rain and seawater to steam, and engage in a moment of theatre as people somewhere else could be dying. It hurts to turn around and face the group of parahumans, a third of whom can't buy their own beer and another third who are fundamentally unfit for this work, and begin the speech I prepared for exactly this scenario.

"Alexandria will be back," I say, activating the public address mode on my halberd and angling my head so everyone can see my visor. Leadership versus command. One inspires, the other orders. Most capes can't take orders from people they don't know, so I have to inspire them. "Until then, it is on _us_ to fight the beast. Do not falter!" I shout, startling some in the front row. Good. Maybe the memory will be clearer, more powerful. "We have fought Endbringers without the Triumvirate before!" And lost. "We can win!" For a certain definition of winning. "Once more!" I finish, turning around and _finally_ throwing my grapple up and out, slinging myself around the intersection at speed to look for the beast, to look for a problem I know, at least theoretically, how to solve.

* * *

I suppress a sigh as the doors behind me open with a soft _woosh_. The noise is mainly cosmetic and I've considered tuning it to specific footsteps so I can know who's entering my lab, but honestly-

"I want more patrols," Shadow Stalker says as she stomps into the room, slapping one of her crossbows down onto a workbench and yanking open a box of tools.

-my intruders tend to announce themselves as soon as they arrive.

"Shadow Stalker, I leave open hours in my schedule with the understanding that they will be used for situations that cannot be addressed through the regular channels." That, or for tinkering with Chris. He seems to have random flashes of insight into almost every field, but lacks the capability to capitalize on them. "If you want more time in the field, appeal to Director Piggot for permission to take on additional labor and-"

"I already did that," she growls, shoving her body into a chair in one short, angry motion. "Filled out the fu- _freaking_ paperwork, and when _that_ came back stamped 'no' two _freaking_ weeks later I talked to her about it and she still said no!" By Stalker's request I leave her weapons mostly untouched. She wanted to be able to perform maintenance on them herself and to be able to take care of all of her other gear without help.

It's an admirable trait. One of the few I've been able to find in her.

"Then I suspect that means you will not be getting additional patrols," I say, finishing up one last microweld and pushing my project away. I'm certainly not going to get any quality work done while she's in the room. "You're already pushing the limit on the number of hours you can work. Unless you want to emancipate yourself, I suggest that you find something worth doing outside of your Ward activities that is both legal and entertaining." I'm almost certain she's violating her probation somehow, but if her infractions occur without seriously harming anyone and enable her to become a semi-functional human being by the time she reaches her age of majority, I would consider them a price well paid.

"Like what?" she asks, using a power screwdriver to pull apart her weapon with frankly impressive speed. "Maybe I should get a boyfriend? One who has no idea what it's like under the mask? Or what about picking up knitting? I'm sure that'll be as satisfying as cracking gangbanger skulls." She picks up an oil cloth and starts rubbing down parts of the trigger mechanism. "There's nothing that's even kind of like this." I suppress another sigh as I recognize this as another situation where she just wants to rant.

"Self-defense courses," I offer anyway, pulling out a tablet and starting a sketch of an improved crossbow. Just because she doesn't want it now doesn't mean she won't later, and it's one of the few productive things I can do while playing armchair psychologist. "Martial arts. Extra training. There are plenty of options."

"But none of them are fighting," she says, momentarily squeezing an arm of the bow hard enough to make the plastic creak. "It's just a bunch of people trying to learn how to run away, fancy sports where they don't want you to hurt any one, and all the extra training bullshit is on procedure," Sophia finishes, finally losing control of her mouth and cussing. She pants for a moment, recovering from her outburst. I've already finished the basic priming mechanism for a semi-automatic variant that should shoot as fast as she can aim, but offering a teenager who wants to hurt people a better weapon would do no one any good.

"Teach," I say, saving the file and putting away the tablet. When she looks at me incredulously, I turn back to my project and pull it out from under the fume hood. "If you don't like how the local dojos run things, change them. Get certified, put up with the 'bullshit', and set up your own classes." She won't be able to legally open her own school until she's at least eighteen, but pursuing it might calm her down for a few weeks. As a short silence descends, I wait for her to blow up. To react. I resign myself to enduring a few mumbled curses, a re-assembly of her crossbow, and her swift departure.

Instead I get a laugh. Forced, but a laugh nonetheless.

"Didn't know you could swear," she says quietly, and soon enough I hear her go back to her weapon, metal whimpering as she brushes it clean.

We work in silence for a while, each attending our own projects. Her departure is devoid of the usual mutterings, and she pauses at the door for a moment, propping it open with her foot.

"Thanks," she says, and it sounds like it has to be pried out of her with a crowbar. I don't comment, and instead nod once. The door closes as I put down my tools, lean back in my chair, and stare at the ceiling.

"What did I just do right?"

* * *

"It's gotten away again," Ahab says, fingering the hook at the end of his prosthetic arm while sucking on a cigarette that somehow hasn't gone out in all this rain. "Tryin' ta track it, but the beastie's movin' fast enough ta shake me hooks almost as soon as I can land 'em."

"Can you at least give me a direction?" I press, voice sounding strange filtered through the lower half of my helmet. A rebreather, gas mask, and comms system all in one, it would've had even more functionality if it didn't also have to be retractable. That decision was a concession to the PR specialists. 'It lets the public see a part of the man beneath the armor' or some other such nonsense. Usually it has to stay folded away despite the glaring weakness its removal leaves in my defenses.

Usually I don't have to worry about drowning while standing up.

"Over thah," the Irish cape cries, pointing towards downtown with his hook. "He's leggin' it!"

"Image coming up now," Dragon says, voice feeding directly into my ear as a window pops up on my HUD showing a rapidly-shrinking circle. "Mass teleport on my mark." I move towards the center of the roof to where the capes capable of engaging in melee with Leviathan are grouping up around Strider. "Three. Two. One. Mark."

A thunderclap and the sensation of being _squeezed_ , then we're on another rooftop, Leviathan once more visible. A dozen lasers spear down from the sky, temporarily knocking it off balance. A black thunderbolt strikes it just above its tail, sending the beast stumbling forwards.

Then the rest of us who couldn't keep up with the creature are now falling from the building towards it, searching for an opening. I see Odokuro throw herself off the roof, crash into the water, then keep moving, forward progress unimpeded by the water flowing through the gaps between her obsidian bones. Fluke teleports in front of Leviathan's claws and blocks them for a moment, temporarily invincible, before teleporting away again to intercept a lash of water, a constant shield against the creature's blows. I have to settle for catching myself on a lamp post, cutting through a fraction of Leviathan's water echo with a burst of plasma, and then stepping over the corpse of a woman in green and white with half her head caved in.

Just because a cape _can_ engage Leviathan in melee doesn't mean they'll always survive it.

But I always do.

There's a rhythm to it. Wait for the Blaster projectiles to pass, step under a haymaker thrown by a Brute who's clearly never done this before, jump clear of an errant claw and _cut_ before peeling away and looking for another opening. The plasma blade is reasonably effective at hurting the skin of the Endbringer, but its true utility lies in denying the beast water. More precise than any pyrokinetic I've ever met, if lacking in raw output. An oft-overlooked piece of utility, and one of the reasons my arsenal for dealing with Leviathan has changed so little since its initial appearance.

Maybe I can't level buildings with a wave of my arm. Maybe I don't have the durability to tank anything short of the most exotic powers. Maybe I'm not the single strongest parahuman on the planet.

 _But I'll be damned if I don't keep up_.

" _Wave incoming_."

* * *

I nod once to Roger as he walks into the gym. He nods back, a small smile on his face. I manage to keep disgust from showing on mine as I turn back to my own training.

I try not to hate him. No one can control what power they receive, for good or ill. No one gets to say 'I will be X with Y subtleties'. I certainly know that Hannah would appreciate being able to properly rest, and Case 53's are hardly content with their situations. I live on the far end of the bell curve for nearly every measurable metric of powers as well as several unmeasurable ones. Versatile, powerful, and without the mental or physical deformations that so many others suffer. By any measure, I am lucky beyond words.

Some are just luckier.

I continue moving through the drills, the staff going _rat-a-tat-tat_ as I beat out a song of sweat and strength on the practice post. Perhaps there's a better regimen, one that incorporates a more ideal distribution of stressors. I can already picture a suit that runs me through the basic stretches and motions, one that could replace hours in the gym.

I finish the routine and hold rest for a moment, then bare my teeth in satisfaction. No, there's something about conscious physical exertion that's soothing. Certainly there's enough literature surrounding the benefits of exercise to say it's not just the placebo effect. If there was a greater need, perhaps. A more pressing threat.

For now, happiness matters more than efficiency.

I go into another kata, starting slow and slowly building speed. Better to take the time to get it right than have to unlearn bad habits. As I fall deeper into the flow, I let my mind wander. To work. To concerns. To my colleagues.

 _Tap_. Assault and Battery, the local power couple. _Tap_. _Tap_. The first is smarter than he acts and still has reservations about working on the proper side of the law. _Tap_. Despite that I trust him, insofar as I would trust any Protectorate cape. _Tap Tap_. His wife is proof that opposites attract and one of the most stable individuals I've met in the business. _Tap_. Each is capable and experienced enough that I can't imagine trading them away to another team in any probable situation.

 ** _Tap Tap_**. Triumph. A recent addition, but one that shows promise. **_Tap_**. He doesn't have the raw power to face off against the more dangerous parahumans, but his mind is sharp enough and he has leadership potential. **_Tap Tap_**. Reliable, but perhaps best suited to managing a smaller town.

 _Thwack_. Velocity. He's a walking contradiction, more than content with his current position — _Thwack_ — but also infected with the wanderlust that lives within all high-rated Movers. _Thwack_. I can occasionally see shades of the military in him when we talk tactics, a tendency for faster takedowns and escalation. _Thwack_. He offers options that no one else on the roster can, but I also can't imagine him remaining here for more than a few more years.

 _Thwack!_ Miss Militia. One of the original Wards, and one of the few capes I've met who is on the same wavelength as me. _Thwack!_ I'm not sure if it's her history, a side effect of being a Noctis cape, or just a random coincidence of chemicals and neurotransmitters, but I don't have to explain to her why I skip sleep. _Thwack!_ Why the first thing I do when I finish something is start on another project. _Thwack!_ Why nothing is ever really _done_.

 ** _Thwack!_**

I break from the kata and bring the staff around in a vicious overhand blow hard enough to send the post tilting back. I reach out and steady it, berating myself. Catharsis is all well and good, but _never_ let it interfere with work. Save it for breaks.

I reset the training post, take a moment to center myself, and go back to the routine, once more moving as slowly and precisely as I can.

 _Tap_.

Dauntless.

 ** _Tap_**.

A local cape, good with people and slowly picking up experience.

 _Thwack_.

A power with literally limitless potential, one which grants mobility, defense, offense, and potentially sensory powers as well.

 _Thwack!_

A man likely to succeed me.

I sigh and redirect my next swing to a guard position when I notice the speed of my strikes increasing. I'm too emotionally compromised right now to work out productively. Maybe some tinkering will clear my head.

I shoulder the staff, take a breath, and walk towards the locker room, mentally reviewing all the reasons why I shouldn't-

"Colin."

-think poorly of my colleagues. I suppress a sigh and turn to face the other man, schooling my features into a professional mask. He's decked out in padded clothing with a helmet in his right hand, leaving his head bare. Green eyes, brown hair, and not-even-painfully average features. He could be anyone from anywhere. The quintessential everyman.

An everyman who happens to be one of the few points of hope left in the world.

"Roger," I say, meeting his gaze. When I don't say anything else he visibly steels himself and presses on.

"Could you spar with me?" he asks, free hand twitching a little. "I mean, you don't have to," he clarifies. "I just want to get in some training before patrol." The hand twitches again. I think he wants to reach up to scratch the back of his head. A nervousness rooted in modesty, to the point that it's a character flaw.

Even his _weakness_ is a strength.

"Why?" I ask. It comes out more bitter than I want, more bitter than it should, I but I have had _enough_. "Why do you bother? Every day, you can just tap whatever it is you want to improve and" — I snap, drawing a flinch from him — "progress. Effortless. Regular. Permanent. Why do you bother _training_ " — I practically spit out the word — "when you can spend your time doing literally anything else? You don't have to work, you don't have to do _anything_ , so _why should I spend my time pushing you even further ahead of me when_ -"

"Because it's not enough!" Roger shouts. I stop, belatedly registering his clenched hands and gritted teeth. "Because I'm not getting better _fast enough_. I'm not on your level. On Hannah's. On Jamie's. On Ethan's. On Robin's. On _Rory's_. Maybe in a few years I will be, but that's not tomorrow. Not next week. Not next month. Someday" — and now his voice is dripping with a bitterness that I recognize — "I'll be someone. Somebody who matters. Maybe. And if I can do anything to make that someday approach even _one second faster_ , I'll do it!"

We both stand there for a moment, looking one another dead in the eye.

He turns away first.

"I'm sorry, I came here to ask for a favor and then-"

"No," I interrupt, swallowing down a lump in my throat and looking at the ceiling. "I was out of line." The words taste like ash in my mouth. Like admitting defeat. I force myself to continue. "My conduct was reprehensible and entirely unsuited to both the situation at hand and the demands of a professional environment in general." I look down and Roger is staring at me, jaw dropped. I wince internally. This, this is the reaction to an apology from me?

I have a lot of work to do.

"I would be more than willing to assist you," I say, motioning to the rack of practice weapons. "Give me a minute to change." Roger nods mutely and walks over to the rack, retrieving a spear and a shield while I grab some padding and strap it on. Once that's done, I pick up a staff and look across the ring.

Roger stands there crouched behind his shield, spear chambered and ready to stab. I take a moment to identify the minor deficiencies in his stance, and then I ask myself what they mean.

He's tense. Too tense, like there's some invisible sword at his neck. Even through the gloves I can see that he's gripping his spear too hard, his center of gravity held too far forward. He's too ready to attack, too desperate to be doing something. His eyes are focused solely on me, locked onto his target without a thought for his surroundings, a decision that would leave him dangerously vulnerable to other enemies in an actual combat situation.

I look into his eyes and see the same desperation that I see in the mirror every morning.

"Relax," I say, mimicking his stance. "It's a spar, not a fight. And take some weight off your front foot." Roger complies, shifting around a bit before settling into something more acceptable. I wait a moment for him to get comfortable, then continue.

"The first thing we're going to do is strike in slow motion. Focus on the form and on getting it right, not on getting it done." I give an example, jabbing towards his shield with exaggerated slowness until the staff gently _clicks_ against wood. I draw the weapon back, then do it again. _Click_. I return to rest, then nod at him. "You try."

We work until he has to go on deck for patrol, building up a sweat by moving at a glacial speed. As one we tear off our helmets and wipe away the perspiration, panting lightly.

"Thank you," Roger says, awkwardly bowing towards me. I nod back.

"You're welcome," I say, racking the staff and shield. We both shed the padding and part ways in the locker room. I clean myself then head back to the lab to stare at an empty Word document, head whirling.

I am not good with people. Every time I re-learn that, I promise not to make the same mistakes, to effect genuine change to my habits. Every time I fail to do so.

I pull up my calendar and add 'training with Dauntless' as a repeating event. Twice a week, just before his patrols.

I always forget that I'm not good with people. But I always try to fix that, too.

* * *

 _Krieg Deceased, NO-13, Good Neighbor Down NO-13._

There are far fewer of us now. Either from the beast's efforts, from not being able to catch up, or from simply running out of steam. Only the strongest are left. Tinkers with the foresight and ability to use power sources other than batteries, Brutes that can ignore things like sleep and hunger, or people who are just used to the most punishing combat conditions known to man. It takes a rare combination of qualities to stick around in an Endbringer fight.

Odokuro is still here. So is Legend. So is Fluke. So are perhaps a dozen other Protectorate capes.

And so are the Empire.

Fenja catches one of Leviathan's claws on her shield even as her sister tries to bat it away with the shaft of her spear. The two of them are taller than it is now, the water barely reaching past their ankles. Lasers curl around them to strike the Second's joints, sending it off balance and stumbling, creating an opening.

Chevalier's blade is already lashing out, crossing the distance and crashing down on its shoulder before the rest of us can land a blow. Crystalline force fields fly in close behind and dig deeper into the open wounds. Then I'm in range, plasma melting through the upper layers of skin on its thigh as Odokuro grapples its other leg and a mess of razors and blades that I recognize as Hookwolf leaps up onto its back-

-and then it _spins_ , the water echo flying everywhere, and I barely flare my halberd in time to evaporate enough water to avoid being turned into paste. I quickly grapple out of the resulting fog to regain my bearings.

 _Clockblocker down, NO-14_. _Kaiser deceased, NO-14_. _Menja down, NO-14_. _Legend down, NO-14_.

The plan was a failure then.

I grit my teeth and ignore the too-light, too-fragile feeling in my chest as I cast out the grapple again. Fenja is standing tall over her sister, trying to defend her as she shrinks and feebly clutches at the gash in her stomach. Odokuro is nowhere to be seen and Hookwolf is just now pulling himself back together. The other Protectorate capes are trying to chip in, but they all know the truth.

We're losing.

"Begone."

A translucent sphere the size of a basketball _screams_ in out of open sky and strikes Leviathan in the chest, sending the beast into an uncontrolled tumble _through_ several city blocks, and I can feel the impact shake something deep in my chest. Myrddin floats down next to me, as inscrutable as ever.

"Now is the time to regroup," he says, voice low enough that the other capes shouldn't be able to hear us. "I cannot use such magic again without time, which we simply do not have."

I look out over the group of capes. He's right. These people need to take a breather. On the other hand, Leviathan can't be left to its own devices, nor will it let us leave the field easily.

We need a distraction.

"Call in Strider," I say, retrieving the second halberd from my back. The one with far less kit and a mad dream pinned on it. "I'll play bait." Myrddin frowns.

"Surely you jest," he says. "I do not mean to insult you, but do you honestly believe-"

"Yes," I interrupt, firing off a grapple. "Yes I do," I finish, reeling myself away and sending out messages via the satellite uplink in my helmet. Contingencies, just-in-case plans for if the worst were to happen today.

That, and a way to ensure that even if I do fail _something_ will come of my sacrifice.

Leviathan is getting up again, swaying like its hurt. I know better. Its hide is torn to shreds, a dozen different wound types marring its body, but only three are deep enough to matter. I see all four eyes track me, the semi-simian semi-reptilian body shifting towards me curiously.

Good. I have his attention. That'll make this easier.

"No one knows where you Endbringers came from," I begin, landing in front of it and blinking my way through a dozen different menus, searching for the program that will give me half a chance of surviving this. "Theories go from mutated parahumans to divine intervention to Tinkertech unleashed. Personally, I believe the last to be the most likely." The predictive software comes online and I can feel it tracing my motions, guiding me faster than I can think. "As a master-class Tinker, I know _exactly_ how dangerous we can be given enough time and resources. So, tell me, _abomination_ ," I growl, activating the nanothorns in my second halberd and raising both weapons high. "Do you think your creator made you into something that _I couldn't destroy?_ "


	41. Scavenge 1

The first hint we get that we're under attack is a ghostly blue projectile that strikes the ground next to Gaucho.

"Fuck!" he shouts, trying to trot his horse away as it explodes into a shockwave. I see the blue wall approaching _fast_ and push out bone bone _bonebonebone_ -

It passes harmlessly through us all, eventually petering out into nothingness. I freeze and wait for the secondary effect.

And wait.

And wait.

"Blue area-of-effect projectile impacted our group with no obvious effects, please advise," Whiteline says into their wrist from the back of one of Gaucho's horses, a dappling barely apparent in different shades of black. I decided _not_ to take the Trump I know basically nothing about up on their offer of a temporary power adjustment, but Gaucho and Snapback both did. Snapback is riding behind Whiteline and Gaucho is on his own mount, a beast of a stallion with shoulders that are higher than my head. Four ghosts float around Snapback, the shades far more distinct than when I first saw his power in action. The resemblance to us is eerie, like the too-perfect-to-be-real faces made by the computer programs Amy showed me during one of our lunches together, and I can't help but stare at them while we wait, tense and impatient for action. I know they're there to pull us to him if he needs help, or if one of us needs to get out of danger.

That doesn't make seeing a distorted version of my own wave-patterned face any easier.

I swallow and change my mask, shifting from flowing curves to hard corners and straight lines, flat planes that are almost insectile in appearance.

Water may not have been the best theme for today.

"Incoming!" Big Game shouts, a trio of birds spilling from her hand and streaking out into the rain, faint lines fading in behind them as they home in on targets. I try to track their path, straining my eyes to see whatever it is that she unloaded on-

A blur slams into me, _plowing_ us both into the ground and breaking the crash lattice beneath my ablative armor and _what the_ ** _fuck_** _is this thing?_ It's like someone took an action figure and ran a butane torch over it, leaving only its hate-filled eyes unwarped.

"Get _off_!" I snarl, hugging whatever it is that _has the temerity to try and hurt me and push out bone in savage-sharp needles from my arms and chest then_ ** _grind_** _-_

A moment of disorientation later and I fall to the ground next to a galloping Whiteline. Snapback is clinging to them for dear life, hat somehow still on his head as the two of them shudder from the bareback riding.

"Va!" he shouts, the two of them already racing ahead of me. I stilt up and grow a few more legs as I hurry after them. I can hear Gaucho cursing up a storm behind me and I spare a moment to look back.

He's riding after us, hoofbeats terrifyingly silent as his horse _rapidly_ catches up. Another blur comes out of the sky, but he waves his hand and a tide of black flows up from the ground, horse heads with silently gnashing teeth and flailing hooves lashing up to snare it. I catch a glimpse of brown skin and slightly twisted limbs too heavily muscled to be pure human before the cape gets pulled down to the ground and the sound of tearing flesh starts.

"Please pay attention to where you're going," Whiteline calls to me. "There's a turn coming up ahead."

I look forward again and _up up up!_ I barely get a pole of bone out in time to vault over the collapsed building in our path. When that slips in a puddle I throw out a claw, catch a windowsill, and begin climbing as fast as I can. I manage to clear the hurdle and pause at the top, looking around. Where is-

Another _fucking_ brown blur slams into me _but this time_ ** _I'm ready_** _and filling it with more bone than_ ** _anyone_** _can survive, prying open gashes that stop bleeding as soon as I make them but that's okay_ ** _I can see the ribs_** _and those are peeling and cracking like so many rose petals and_ ** _I can see the heart_** _but the brown person with a furious face_ ** _doesn't stop when I pull it out_** _so I stop playing nice and just_ ** _tear_** _-_

More _fucking_ disorientation later and I'm rolling across the ground next to Whiteline and Snapback _again_ , this time with Gaucho along for the ride.

"Get on up, girlie!" the cowboy-wannabe shouts as I feel a horse form under me. I wrap its neck in bone and fuse my armor to it as I regain my bearings.

"I said turn, not jump," Whiteline says conversationally. "Please trust me to provide reasonable direction." I bite back the urge to _show him what I think of his leadership with needles_ and focus on trying to hold on to the horse, which feels less like flesh and blood and more like sticky jello.

"What the hell are those things?" I ask. "I stabbed one in the heart _and it didn't die_! Also, where's Big Game?"

My question gets answered by a _bellow_ when a stag wire-frame filled out by what looks like glowing leaves peels off of a nearby street and pulls up beside us. On its back is Big Game, looking shaken but alive.

"My guess is some sort of self-replicator that can fly who also received a Brute rating from Erinye," Whiteline says dispassionately. "And Big Game appears to be fine. Are you?" he asks, pitching his voice to reach her.

"I'm good," she says, voice fragile but stable. "Are we running away?" she asks, her voice in that odd place between hopeful and fearful.

"Regrouping," Whiteline clarifies. "Gaucho is one of the few mass-Movers left, so we'll be-"

I see a flash of light out of the corner of my eye and try to jerk my horse right. Instead I fall completely off as my tenuous hold slips, the bone collar sliding through the horse's neck without resistance. Fucking powers. A silvery projectile flashes over where I was previously to hit the side of a building beside me, leaving a small star made of silver lines. A moment later a pile of debris flies through the air, following the projectile's path through where my head used to be and demolishing the building's wall, sending the structure tipping over. I manage to stilt back up and rejoin my group, who are weaving and zig-zagging to avoid the silvery spears and subsequent barrage of ruin.

"Puta madre!" Snapback shouts as Whiteline jerks particularly abruptly. "¿Qué diablos está pasando?"

"We're being shot at," Whiteline says. "Two-step shot, first one marks a target and the second brings local loose objects towards it. I haven't seen a max weight yet. I don't suppose one of you could track them down?" they ask, sparing a second to glance over their shoulder.

"Tell me where to go," I say, already pushing out more limbs to accelerate-

"I'll come with," Big Game says. When I shoot her a worried look, she meets my gaze unflinchingly. "Someone needs to distract them while you close the distance." I resist the urge to tell this girl of maybe eleven to stay out of danger and just jerk my head in a nod. Gaucho is the only reason Whiteline and Snapback are mobile, so he can't exactly split off from them, and those two aren't going to be much help dealing with a ranged threat. I glance back up at Whiteline, who gallops in serpentine for a moment before looking back questioningly.

"Big Game should have a better understanding of where the target is than I," they say and I can almost detect a note of amusement. "Listen to her." They point to an upcoming cross street. "We split here. The rendezvous point will be marked on your bracelets. Please don't get captured." Then we hit the crossroad, and the three of them go right; Big Game kicks her heels into her projection and _leaps_ forward, and I have to shift _deeper_ into bone to keep up with her. Another trio of birds split off from Big Game and soar up into the sky, flitting between the remaining rooftops. She promptly takes a hard left.

"They're on top of a building three blocks away from here!" she shouts. "Four of them! I'll try to keep the Blaster from harassing us! No promises!" More birds start peeling out from her and I see her hand point up to a commercial building with freshly-broken windows and a flat top. A silver bolt flies out from on top of it and we both swerve, leaving the follow up projectiles to harmlessly impact the flooded street. I see Big Game slash her hand down and flickers of light fall from the sky. Shortly thereafter a faint scream filters down from the building and the silvery bolts stop coming. I think she looks a little green at the gills.

Then two figures rise from the rooftop and _blur_ forward into brown thunderbolts and _not this time you_ ** _living wastes of flesh_** _!_

I stilt up in front of Big Game and _slam_ into the foremost one, snagging the other with a hook of bone to its collarbone that pulls him off-target. _No, you fight_ ** _me_** _!_ The one in my arms gets to see what it's like _being stuffed so full of needles they're more_ ** _bone_** _than flesh_ while Mr. Hook gets to have _his throat torn open by a lash of bone reaching across and carving a bright red laugh into him_.

Apparently the one in my arms doesn't like that though and _spins_ in midair, sending me flying across the street and leaving him with lungs full of bone _which doesn't seem to bother him at all!?_ As I look the bone pulls into him, shifting and molding until the material is seamlessly integrated into its body, a patchwork of smooth white and dark brown skin. The other one's throat closes up equally fast as the two of them float there, grinning at me.

"Bitch thinks she can put us down," the now-part bone one says, cracking its neck and grinning widely. It has too many teeth to be human, with a head that's just barely too long.

"Bitch is wrong," the other one says. This one looks melted like the first cape that attacked me, but more pulpy and less streamlined. There's a slight slur on the 'buh' sound as it speaks. "Gonna show her how wrong she is."

I settle into a lower stance, forming thorns on my armor and recreating the crash layer underneath it. I add teeth to my mask, sharp jagged things meant for taking bites and tearing free meat from muscle.

"Fucking _try_ ," I hiss. They take the bait and _blur_ towards me. Perfect.

The part-bone cape falls to pieces in midair as I reach out and twist the exposed bone-parts of it, shattering its torso and letting it rip itself apart as it flies. _Fool_. The other one charges into a spear of bone, runs all the way down it ( _oh no you don't_ ) and catches on the cross guard that _I grow inside of its belly_. Its arms scrape weakly at the air in front of me, just an inch too short to reach. _What a shame_. I push some bone _up_ and _down_ , slowly drawing its body _painfully_ straight as columns press and burst through meat. It _still_ doesn't die, flesh tearing marginally as it jerks around on the pike. _Looks like you can take a beating. How much of one?_ I grow the bone _wide_ , ballooning its chest. It starts coughing, choking as blood sprays from its lips, and its droopy eyes go wide as its hands go to its chest and its face turns purple. I watch _as this_ ** _worm_** _wriggles on a hook, learning that it wasn't such hot shit_ ** _after all_**.

Eventually, its hands stop moving.

I snap off my connection to the spear and let the _thing_ fall back, splashing into the water to float uselessly still. Then I turn on my heel and _head to finish the job_.

The upper torso of the ragged one is crawling along the ground, dragging itself with one hand and groaning. As I watch it presses a rock into the area under its ribs, the stone deforming to shape into something tube-like.

It doesn't hear me come up behind it. It certainly notices when I stomp its head under the water, shove a needle in its ear, _extend_ and _spin_.

It stops moving after that.

I break off the needle and look up, leaving bone sticking up and out of the water, scanning for Big Game. I don't have to look long. She's trotting her elk back over to me, skin turning paler as she takes in the stiff in the water and the ragged remnants of the thing in front of me.

This probably looks pretty bad.

"They were really tough," I say, wincing internally at how defensive I sound. Acting like there's a problem is a great way to make people think that there is one. Fortunately, Big Game doesn't seem like she wants to make a big deal of it and just nods quickly.

"I think I hit the capes up there, but they got away," she says, a strange note in her voice, something between disappointment and relief. I let it pass and stilt up, checking my bracelet.

"White Rose and Big Game. We dealt with two Brutes on the corner of Freebooter and Nietzsche," I say. "Where can we meet up with more capes?" There's no verbal response, but the screen lights up and an arrow points off towards the north. I look to Big Game, who holds up her own arm and nods. Same page, then. I start moving, bone splashing quietly in the water as Big Game follows me, her birds zipping off to scout the path ahead.

* * *

The rendezvous point changes as we approach it, the arrow slowly crawling east as the sounds of battle grow louder. Sometimes I can hear the screech of something that sounds almost human, only the sheer volume of the noise betraying its unnatural source. Other times all I hear is the clap of water crashing into something, the lack of noise as telling as anything else. Flashes of light and other distractions provide visual markers for the main engagement, clear markers of where to avoid traveling, so Big Game and I skirt the edges of the conflict.

Neither of us can hurt Leviathan. Neither of us want to fight whatever is crying out loud enough to shake the windows either.

Eventually the bracelet starts beeping and a number pops up which rapidly ticks down as we approach the meeting point. Big Game looks at her own and what I think might be a small smile graces her face.

"We're almost there!" she says, her mount tossing its head once and moving fractionally faster. I match her as we race down the street, turn a corner, and come across the main body of capes.

Or, what's left of them at least.

I remember feeling vertigo when I looked out at the Endbringer fight attendees only a few unbelievably long hours ago. I remember mentally calculating the amount of damage they could do, of figuring out that a select handful of them could scour the Bay to the bedrock, of feeling reality nearly peeling away from the sheer affront to conventional physics that occupied the building.

There might be a few dozen capes left at most.

Some of them look no worse for wear. Chevalier and a black skeleton are both standing tall in the middle of a circle of capes, his words inaudible over the pounding rain as the skeleton makes gestures with its hands, a ragged-looking cape next to it speaking after each flurry of gestures. There are a few more like them, either too proud or too durable to be bothered by something as pedestrian as exhaustion, but most of the others are haggard and worn, hunched over, leaning against a wall or sitting down wherever it's dry enough. A woman in a cocktail dress that's seen better days is lounging on a block of stone, fire flowing off of her and providing warmth for a number of other parahumans.

"Oi! You two!" Big Game and I turn our heads towards the shout and see an old man with receding white hair waving a hook hand at us. "Getcher arses over here and figure out where ya belong!" he yells, making a beckoning motion with his arm. The two of us trade a glance before walking over to him.

Up close he looks even older, skin creased with wrinkles made worse by the wet. Next to him are two other capes, one a girl in an emerald Zorro mask and top hat set at a jaunty angle and the other a guy dressed in loose sweats and the bottom half of a paintball mask, with a far-out look in his almond eyes and a greasy man bun.

"Now then, whatcha say about the girlie here's odds of taking on the clones?" the old cape says, slapping me on the back. I bat his arm away and _give the lousy carcass a glare_ , but he's focused on the other two. Green Hat cocks her head so the brim of her hat is almost parallel to the ground, while Man Bun slaps his face. A hissing noise escapes from his mask and the scent of something sickly sweet fills the air.

"Cogs'll turn and catch and tear but never, ever, life forswear," Green Hat mutters, bobbing her head in time to the rhyme. I blink in surprise.

"I got chills," Man Bun says, rubbing his arms and looking at me with genuine fear in his eyes. "Got the chills for you girl." I take a step back, unnerved by the contrast of nonsense words and absolute certainty in their voices.

"An' the great Whale?" Hook-hand says, clapping one-handed. The two of them shake their heads, then look at me again.

"Lope and laugh and lose a half, then the rest comes tumbling after," Green Hat says, this time a note of sorrow in her voice.

"Juju's tearing at my eyes, man!" Man Bun shouts as his hands shoot up towards his face. Green Hat catches his fingers before they make it though, and there's a brief bout of wrestling between them while Hook-hand claps my shoulder and points with his prosthesis towards a group of capes standing by a statue of some colonial figure.

"You'll be fighting Erinye along with all them other capes, alright?" he says. I nod, then turn to look at Big Game. She steps forward, looking up at the two Thinkers as they fix their gaze on her.

"Quick and caught and licked a lot, nothing left but ash," Green Hat says, panting slightly as she traps Man Bun into a headlock.

"Lighting me up by looking at her," Man Bun whispers, eyes wide as he shudders in Green Hat's arms.

"Didact and Hatter'll find a spot for her," Hook-hand says as he pushes me away. "Now get on and collect some heads!" I stay for long enough to see Big Game head towards Chevalier and the black skeleton, then leave to join my own group.

This gathering is bigger than the one at the medical center, big enough that I don't think I could remember everyone's names if we went around. There are a few stand-outs, though. I recognize the guy that had the speaker from the beach, a trumpet now slung across his chest and a violin and bow in his hands. I think the woman in the kimono floating just above the water is from Myrddin's group, Rave or Revel or something, and she gives me a brief nod before looking back towards the three capes I just left.

A few more capes join us. I recognize Dauntless and Miss Militia from the local Protectorate, along with the black and white parahuman from the coast. Now he has five hatchets strapped across his body and is staring at Revel, inscrutable behind his checkered, striped, polka-dotted, plaid, and urban-camouflage suit. Eventually, people stop coming in and the woman in the kimono floats above the crowd, holding her bracelet to her mask.

"I'm Revel, and I'll be the commanding officer of this task force. In case you weren't briefed, the parahuman codenamed Erinye surfaced during the Endbringer attack. Thinkers initially pegged her as a Brute/Trump/Master hybrid, an A-class threat that nonetheless took a backseat to Leviathan." Her voice is coming from my wrist. A function of the bracelet? I can hear her just fine from where I stand, but I dutifully put my hand by my ear anyway, listening closely. "We assumed that the process of modifying the parahuman's powers warped their personality, making them psychopaths loyal to Erinye. We were wrong," she says bluntly.

"Erinye doesn't mind control parahumans; she creates them." I feel my blood go cold at the thought as a mutter runs through the crowd. "Thinker and eyewitness testimony reports that she can absorb biological organisms on touch, then spit out warped versions of them," Revel says, pressing on over the noise. "These parahumans have powers that are similar to the original but rarely identical, though Erinye's minions appear to be stronger on balance." Revel looks at the gathered capes, eyes hard above her mask, her lantern turning nearby raindrops into short-lived stars.

"As of now Erinye is an S-class threat, with kill orders signed and approved for her and all of her creations. The Triumvirate and a selection of other capes will attempt to force Leviathan away while we go after her. Thinker audits put her current count of prisoners at less than a dozen and it is key that we keep that number from growing. Those of you familiar with Master/Changer/Stranger protocols, share them with your companions, level nine plus for all. Briefly, that means you stay in contact with control and with your team, and if anyone approaches you without our say-so, assume hostility and shoot to kill." She waits for that to sink in, then starts moving towards the three capes that screened me. "Dragon has set rally points for your groups. Go there, set your passwords, and godspeed."

" _Wave incoming_ ," our bracelets chime. I pull mine away from my ear as half a dozen different projections take shape, the gaps between the buildings ahead of me being filled in by everything from gently shining spheres to angry, sticky flame. A few people step forward, pushing others back behind them and digging in their feet, figures covered in plates of stone or steel or simply walking with a confidence that says they think they'll be alright. Brutes, probably, or Tinkers who trust their tech to take the hit, wavebreakers for whatever gets through the Shaker fields.

I feel a hand pull me back and I turn to look at its owner, a fat man with modern-looking armor over his chest and limbs.

"Stay behind me!" he shouts, setting one foot in front of the other and crossing his arms. I shift further behind him, the motion oddly difficult. A Shaker? The raindrops start falling more slowly around me as another pair of capes flank him, one a woman in a neon-green skintight suit covered in googly eyes and the other a sexless pile of flaking stone.

Then I see the wave crest, water coursing furiously down the streets in a mass that reaches three stories tall, prompting even more force fields to pop up.

Deep in the heart of the water I see four asymmetrical glowing green eyes.


	42. Scavenge 2

The wave breaks against the force fields. Several fail, more shudder or crack or in one case _bleed_ , but the mass of water falters as it's robbed of its momentum and turned into mist, boiled away by a dozen different types of fire and heat or scattered by the sheer pressure of the impact. What little that gets through splashes harmlessly against the line of Brutes standing tall in the chest-high water.

Then Leviathan passes through the defenses like they're not even there.

I take a step back, already moving and grabbing _one two three_ other people who didn't step forward to join the Brute line, dragging them to the left and away from Leviathan with hooks of bone snagging their loose clothing or tangling around limbs. A moment later a building's worth of water crashes down on top of us as he pump-fakes and sends his water echo knocking over all the people I didn't grab, washing away all the light-weights to leave only the man in armor and his two companions somehow unmoved while Leviathan has spun on a dime to attack another group of capes and his claws and tail are lashing out in a million directions at once to split open chests and sever limbs and that's at least five people dead and-

"Scatter!" Revel's voice screams from my wrist, interrupting my train of thought and sending me back into the real world. Right. Not our fight.

I need to run.

The three capes I have a tendril on get bundled in close around me, bands of woven bone criss-crossing their chests as limbs sprout freely from the ever-thickening shell around us. I think they're speaking to me but now we need to _run_. I try to stilt us away, but the first few limbs shatter not even two feet off the ground as they fail to take the weight, sending us back into the water. Damn. Too heavy. I need to adapt.

I form a lattice to evenly distribute the weight of my passengers across the shell as my limbs shift from spindly feelers to clawed pillars, trading agility for power and thrusting the four of us to a nearby rooftop. I see flashes of light in front of me (Blaster projectiles, I think distantly in a moment of clarity) and promptly twist right, almost over balancing as I adjust to the extra weight.

I force myself to take a shaky breath as I cross over the street fifty feet below.

Calm. I need to calm down.

I don't calm, but I do slow down a little, the awareness of my panic making it more manageable. I focus on my movement, thinking about where each pillar should go, how best to avoid slipping or accidentally putting a hole in a roof. I keep moving, keep stiliting, working up speed as I put distance between us and the Endbringer. Eventually, the sounds are quiet enough that I can hear myself think. And hear my passengers screaming at me.

"Oya lassie ya can lemme down-"

"Miss this is quite far enough-"

"Dumb cunt let me go!"

Fuck.

"Sorry," I say, dropping down to a nearby rooftop and releasing the three capes, each left staggering as I free them of their bonds. "I didn't think when I reached out. Leviathan showed up and I stopped thinking and tried to do what made sense and-"

"Ain't complainin'," the black and white cape says, flexing his limbs then shaking his entire body like a dog, _blurring_ temporarily and sending water everywhere. "I wasn't gonna take a hit from the beastie without help. Saved me life."

"Thank you," a woman I don't recognize mutters, nodding at me once. She's covered head to toe in scales that fade from purple to green, with talons at the end of her fingers, an upside down 'u' on the back of her left hand and orange ophidian eyes narrowed at me menacingly as she flares her flat nostrils. "But next time, try not to run so far." I feel a twinge of irritation but bite down a reaction. Starting a fight over this isn't going to be good for anyone.

"Chill out, Pansy Parkinson. It's not like a few city blocks is going to make the fight that much harder to find," the last cape comments casually, wasting my self control as she points a finger towards the little specks of light streaking through the sky and raining down blasts of energy. This one is decked out in chains, with small thin lengths around the joints and thick links around her forearms, chest, and thighs. "Leviathan's over there," she says sarcastically, "so if you want round two that won't be hard to arrange."

"If I could I would," Snake-Lady snaps, a forked tongue flicking out angrily. "On the other hand, my venom didn't work when I first tried it and my claws aren't cutting it anymore," she hisses, fingers curling angrily but not clenching.

"Ladies, y'all are beautiful, but can we keep our head in the game?" Black and White asks, prompting the three of us to look at him. He's staring at his bracelet, one finger tapping away at it. "The nice girlie who gives us orders is sayin' that the old plan's out the window and to put down anythin' that tries to kill us first." The three of us check our bracelets as well. While his explanation is a little more blunt than Dragon's, it's also not wrong, as a message to the same effect scrolls across our screens along with coordinates to patrol.

"Area denial. Well, that's one way to do it," Chains says, shrugging. A gentle tinkle accompanies the sound and I can make out a smile on her face through a veil of what looks like bicycle chain. "So they just want us to walk around and kill things? I can manage that."

"Ain't murder. Just shutting down minions," Black and White says quietly, looking over the edge of the building and down to the flooded street. "Mind givin' me a hand down?" he asks, looking at me. I nod.

"A moment," I say, walking over to the ledge and shoving my misgivings about working with these three crazies into a box and shelving them for later. A tendril of bone crawls out from my foot, slips over the ledge, and splits into a ladder, Once I see the ends splash down into the water I motion at it. "After you," I say.

Black and White starts descending carefully and calmly, one rung at a time. After a moment Snake Lady follows, eyeing the material warily but still getting on. Chains simply steps over the edge, tilts parallel to the ground, and starts walking down the wall, a length of metal hooked over the lip of the building attached to her back. I take in the sight for a moment, then shake my head at the casual disregard for gravity and stilt down to the ground. A woman walking down a wall really shouldn't be nearly as surprising as it is, but it's still odd to see an absolute lack of hesitance in what would otherwise be a suicidal action.

About halfway through Snake Lady and Black and White's descent, our bracelets beep.

" _Hostiles detected in your zone_ ," a pre-recorded voice chimes.

"Back to back," Chains says, quiet and serious as the lengths of metal that rest on her start shifting and grating against one another. I hear a muffled curse from above us, then a rush of air and a splash of water. Snake Lady strides up next to me, tongue flicking out rapidly and eyelids flicking open and shut, the color of the iris shifting slightly with every blink.

"I can't taste anyone in the air or see anything odd in the other spectrums of light," she whispers, head slowly swaying from side to side in a decidedly inhuman fashion. "I don't think there are any Strangers nearby, but they could be affecting my mind."

"Calm down lassie," Black and White says, splashing down into the water and rolling his shoulders as he approaches our cluster. "The nice lady says they were in the area, right? That don't mean they're here. Zone's large." He holds up his bracelet and taps it twice. A grid shows up, with one square highlighted. He taps it again and the map zooms in on the highlighted square, with a red circle in the upper right hand square and a blue dot in the upper right hand square. "Damn clever," he mutters, looking back at it. "Wonder if it's got a phone function?"

"What's your name?" I ask. He looks at me, inscrutable behind his multi-patterned mask, and I clarify. "I've been calling you Black and White in my head and I'd like to know your name if we're going to actually work together." I know it's an awkward time, but I can't see a more convenient one coming up in the future. Black and White must agree because he shrugs and turns back to the bracelet.

"Name's Kat Sidhe," he says. After a moments silence he looks up at the other two women. "Might wanna share your names as well. Just a thought." Snake Lady and Chain both glare at him, but he's turned back to his bracelet. Eventually Snake Lady huffs and rolls her eyes.

"Vapa Igna," she says as she turns to look back at the streets. Chains leans back against a wall, apparently content that the threat isn't imminent.

"Caress," she says, as her chains fall flat. "Yours?"

"White Rose," I answer, briefly twisting my mask into a rose blossom. Caress does a little double-take while Kat spares a brief glance and Vapa looks on impassively. "Now, what's the plan and can we get out of the downpour?" I ask, sparing a glance up and shifting my mask to an avian beak and brow to keep the rain off my lenses. God, how much is it going to rain? It's still pouring, though the heavy clouds look lower than they were at the start of the fight. I wonder how much of that is simply pessimism making them seem closer and how much is Leviathan's next move.

"Plan's to go north-east to contain the minions, and if you can find a path that's covered feel free to tell me about it," Kat Sidhe says, finally letting his arm drop. He turns up the street and begins to slog steadily through the shin-high water. "Come on, let's get moving."

"So we just charge into the group of psycho Master creations that are at least as strong as a normal cape? Yeah, that'll go well," Caress laughs, sounding amused, eyes still on my face. "If you don't have a clue what to do, just say so." I feel a twinge of irritation, but the criticism makes me pause and look at Kat Sidhe. I was following his lead, but now that I think about it none of us actually know anything about him.

"The intel we have ain't worth much and it'll only get more shite with time," Kat Sidhe snaps back, lifting his arm with the bracelet and checking it again. "And I don't feel like waitin' to be ambushed." Now I set myself in place, determined to take some time to think things through. Walking into a situation without knowing the risks nearly got me killed once already (I manage to avoid shuddering at the memory of bone burning in dragon fire), and I don't want to see if it goes better the second time around. Fortunately, my view seems to be the dominant one because neither of the other two capes budge.

"Have you ever fought large groups of enemy capes like this before?" Vapa asks, and I swear I can see something like an eyebrow arch on her hairless forehead. After letting the splash of rain on water dominate the silence for a moment, she sighs. "That's what I thought. The blind leading the blind."

"Not like we got any other options," Kat Sidhe presses, drumming his fingers on the haft of one of his axes. "Time's a-wastin, and it ain't like things are gonna get better as we burn more of it."

"Not necessarily," Vapa says, crossing her arms under her breasts and looking the other cape in the eye. "I've been a part of a team of parahumans for the past seven years and at no point has waiting five minutes to consider potential threats ever come back to bite me," she states, shifting her gaze between the three of us in turn. "I'm proposing we stop, get out of the rain, and clarify the chain of command before doing anything else. If anyone else thinks they have a better idea, tell me." After a moment, Kat Sidhe shrugs once and his hand falls still. Caress looks at the Protectorate cape for a long second, and her chains ripple once. Then she inclines her head towards the monstrous cape.

"All you," Caress says, casting a sideways glance at me. "What about you, Rosie?" I bite down the urge to chastise her for using Hookwolf's inane nickname and gesture at Vapa.

"Lead the way," I say. Vapa nods once, then turns to look at the display window behind her, three mannequins decked out in spring shirts and shorts contrasting with the grey deluge.

"We'll talk in here, out of the rain. Now, did anyone notice where the door-"

A length of chain with a metal ball on the end slams through window, cutting off Vapa's words in a crash of glass. Then the chain, unnaturally straight, slowly descends, moving back and forth like a saw blade, slowly knocking out more and more fragments from the window. After a few more screeches of metal on glass, there's a hole big enough to fit a sedan. Caress walks in front of a shocked Vapa, the smirk clear through the dirty bike chains covering her face.

"Lookee me, found a door," the she says smugly, stepping carelessly over the glass. "Now come on, I think there was a pretzel shop somewhere in this place. I want to see if they still have wares."

* * *

A few semi-stolen pastries later (Vapa left some cash on the register in case the original owner came back) and we're discussing potential plans. Well, for a certain definition of discussion.

"No, we're not going to charge into battle like the Celts. That is a terrible idea. I told you this already," Vapa says patiently, pretzel untouched before her and hands clasped over the table. I've been staring at her for the past three minutes of back-and forth, and every time Kat brings up the same idea her eyes narrow a little more. "Can you please just stop suggesting it?" I'd almost think the two of them had some sort of pre-existing feud, but he's from Ireland and she's from the States. It's just natural antipathy on an absurd scale.

"An' what do you want to do? Sit around and wait for them to come to us? Shit like that doesn't work against any cape with anything close to a sensory power," Kat replies stubbornly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, body language compensating for his full-face mask. "I only keep bringin' it up 'cause no one's giving us a better idea." He snarfed down his food in less than a minute and is now fiddling with an axe he's disassembled across the table. It's far more complicated than it looks on the outside, but I don't _think_ any of it is electrical. On the other hand, Tinkertech.

"You'd know all about good ideas from your wealth of experience from fighting Thinkers, hmm?" Caress says, punctuating her question with a loud slurp from a violently purple slushie. She's done little more than stir the pot, seemingly content to watch the chaos unfold. Perhaps the worst facilitator in history. She doesn't want to be left out, but she also doesn't contribute in any meaningful way. Dumb muscle, in the truest sense of the word.

"Fuck you," Kat Sidhe says, flat and unimpressed. Vapa sighs.

"Can we keep this civil?" Vapa asks, one hand going up to rub an area roughly around where her left ear should be. "We're all on the same side here."

"'S why I'm arguing," Kat says, and I can make out some genuine regret in his voice. "Really don't think that waitin' around is gonna help anyone."

"Nor will charging in recklessly," Vapa presses, dropping her head into her hands. "Will you at least concede that?" A tendril of chain slips up over the edge of the table, hooks through a loop of her pretzel, and pulls it away. Moments later the same pretzel reappears in a grinning Caress's hand. I sigh.

This is going nowhere.

"Why don't we start from first principles instead?" I ask. The two active participants in the conversation turn to look at me, and I steady myself by growing a vine through my sodden hair, a rose bloom forming at the base of the pony tail. "Let's look at what we want to do and what we have, then try to start coming up with solutions. Work smarter, not harder." That, and it gives everyone a moment to breathe. An old trick Mom used to use when she and Dad got into arguments. It seems to work here as well, because Vapa and Kat exchange a glance before signaling agreement, Vapa by inclining her head once and Kat with an exaggerated shrug.

"Need to rustle up some coffee anyway," Kat says, pushing back from the table and walking away. "You want any?" he asks, looking between the three of us.

"I can't drink it, but thank you," Vapa says, standing up as well. "I'm going to find some paper and writing utensils," she says, looking at me with a pleading gaze. "Can you keep an eye on her?" she asks, motioning to Caress, who promptly puts on an innocent smile as she bites into the remaining half of Vapa's treat.

"I'll try," I say, eyeing the other woman warily. Vapa sighs and departs, leaving me alone with Caress.

For a solid minute we sit there, silent save for the sounds of her eating. I observe her as she makes a theatre of it, smacking her lips and licking each finger clean of brown sugar while giving me suggestive looks that don't reach her eyes. Those stay cautious and sharp. I keep my mask blank and hold my shell perfectly still. Once the treat is gone, Caress lets out an exaggerated sigh and falls back in her chair.

"You're no fun," Caress moans.

"And you're not helpful," I reply, leaning forward, taking up space. "The whole sniping, arrogant thing? It's irritating. Knock it off."

"Make me," Caress says, light and mocking. I notice the gentle curl of chains around her tighten and feel the scrape of metal against bone near my leg. A warning.

"You won't win this fight," I say quietly. Time to play hardball. "I fought a man who could regenerate through losing limbs, who could fill whole streets with fire and throw around cars like plastic cups." I pause. "He's dead now."

Caress doesn't move.

"I've dodged fire from the fastest, most destructive flier this side of Legend, and I did it while carrying a hostage," I continue, slowly pushing a spike of bone out of my hand. I keep it simple, just a point of bone angled towards Caress's eye. "Dozens of gangbangers have unloaded on me with automatic weapons and failed to get past my first layer of armor." I pull apart the plates on my arm like a flower, revealing the flawless skin underneath. One of the few things I'm proud of. "You may think that you're scary. That you have the power to take me. Let me assure you, you don't."

I let the words hang in the air for a moment. Caress isn't smiling anymore.

Then I slowly let the spike unspool. First come the vines, forming a skeleton of a cone, then the ivy leaves, filling in the gaps and turning the vague outline into a vase. Inside I form coltsfoot, petals so thin they're nearly transparent, stems far longer than nature could ever make. Once the arrangement is complete, I place it on the table between us, gently severing the stems inside and my connection to it, leaving the flowers to clatter lightly against one another as they come loose.

Caress blinks.

"We're not enemies," I say, leaning back. First the stick. Then the carrot. Fair trades are the basis of a healthy relationship. "We're both here to fight monsters. All of us are on the same side. I will pay you in flowers to remember that. Fair?" I try to meet her gaze. She's still not smiling, but this time her eyes is fixed on my hand.

"Can you do that again?" she asks. I smile behind my mask.

Hook, line, and sinker.

"Play nice and I will," I reply, making eye contact. A spike of bone comes up, but it's just a spike. Caress returns my gaze, unimpressed.

"You're gonna make me fucking say it, aren't you?" she asks. I stay still, wordless. Waiting

She breaks first.

"Please?" she says, and it sounds like it had to be torn out of her. I nod, resisting the urge to ask how difficult that was. This time I make it a tulip. I grow it as slowly as I can, petals unfolding from the spike as smoothly as pouring milk, spike thinning until all that's left of it is stem and leaves. Caress is enraptured, laser-focused on the slowly molding bone. Once I finish the bloom, I make it wilt, still slowly. Petals droop, shrivel, thin, and eventually fall, the wafers of bone so thin the pain is barely more than the sting of clipping nails a little close. Once that flower is done, she looks back up at me, expression an odd mix of supplication and hard determination. I hold up my other hand placatingly, already growing more flowers. Hyacinths. These ones are a little more tricky, a little less perfect, but the process doesn't appear to be any less fascinating to Caress. She just stares, entranced, looking at the steady life and death of bone flowers until footsteps start echoing throughout the mall again.

Her posture shifts, becoming more loose, less caring, and she starts smiling again. Her body is still pointed at the flower though, and when I pull the bone back in I see her hands tense a little. Disappointment?

"Did you get me my triple-espresso-not-fat-soy-milk-macchiato?" she teases. Kat plops down across from her and pushes a tall paper cup with a black plastic lid at her. Caress pouts at his lack of reaction, but nonetheless accepts the drink and sips loudly at it. Vapa shows up not much later, a legal pad in one hand and a packet of pens in the other. She tears one free, grips it awkwardly in her claws, and divides the paper into three columns, one labeled "powers," one labeled "goals," and the third labeled "potential strategy," all in shaky handwriting.

Then she looks up at us and I learn what the business face of a monster cape intent on doing harm to someone looks like.

"Let's start with powers."

"Patrol approaching," Vapa says beside me, eyes glowing a clear white through the rain.

"How far out and how many, lassie?" Kat asks over the bracelets. He managed to turn all of our wrist-wear into short-ranged radios, which makes coordinating a moving ambush zone far easier. When Vapa asked what other tricks he had in store, he responded with "not many" and didn't say anything more on the subject. I think he's a villain just because of how evasive he's being, but I wouldn't put money on it.

"Six in a cluster traveling about four blocks out," Vapa replies. Besides sharp claws, fangs, poison, and a low Brute rating, she's also got some sort of variable enhanced vision. She doesn't quite know how it all works, but one of the easy ones is magnification, from a factor of two all the way up to more than is practical in any given situation. "Two flying above, one with several extra limbs and one that looks like it got melted. The east most one has some silver spheres floating around her, the woman next to her has a bandolier of some sort with blades of glass threaded through it, and the last two are naked."

"Melted one has a healing factor of some sort," I add. "I've fought one that looks just like it before. It was able to shrug off being nearly decapitated."

"Sounds irritating," Vapa replies, "But remember the plan," she adds, making eye contact with me. I nod.

"This isn't my first rodeo," I say, echoing the words of Gaucho. I wonder if he's alright, what he's doing now. Transport, maybe? Get the Thinkers out and away from the fighting, then come back for anyone else who wants out.

"Still," Vapa presses, genuine worry creeping into her throat. "We're going to be killing people here. Do you think you can handle it?" The amount of concern in her voice makes me sick.

"Not my first rodeo," I repeat, more quietly this time, and I sort of stare at the roof beneath my feet. Vapa's a veteran, one with more than a few Endbringer fights under her belt, and she has to psych herself up for this. I _default_ to lethal force.

What does that say about me?

"Now that you two have had your moment, how about I kill the two not-obvious ones first?" Caress asks and I can almost hear her chains clinking over the rain. "Scariest cape is the one you've never met before."

"Only if you can get to them without taking too many risks," Vapa replies before turning to look sideways at me. "Are you ready, White Rose?" I roll my shoulders, let out half a breath, and nod.

"Ready," I answer quietly, walking backwards across the top of the building until my heel hits the other lip. Vapa is standing tall in the rain, once more focused on the street. Somewhere down there is Caress and Kat Sidhe, making their own preparations for the fight. I wonder what they are doing. Praying, maybe? Taking some calming breaths?

For a moment all is silence.

Then it's not.

"They're stopping," Vapa says. "Now!"

I sprint forward across the rooftop, forming a javelin in one hand and cocking it back as I try to work out the angle. I'm the only one of us with a ranged option, so instead of _trying to fillet the monsters roaming the streets_ , I'm stuck lobbing bits of sharpened bone at them from a few blocks away. Vapa insists that this is the best way to do things, but I have my doubts. That could just be the sharp, stabby part of me though.

"Incoming!" I shout, hopefully loud enough to be heard by the bracelet, as I step forward and _hurl_ the javelin, this one several times thicker than the one that killed the clones who attacked the medical tents. It's also heavier, with bone that's denser in a way I can't quite describe and didn't think I could make before I tried to.

Well, denser save for the streaks of weaker, thinner bones I wove into it.

I track the spear as it flies silently through the air, counting the heart beats as it travels. One. Two. Three.

On four, somewhere about two thirds of the way through its arc, I reach out and _twist_ , shattering the weapon into dozens of different projectiles, transforming the attack from a scary-if-easily-dodgeable pike falling from the sky into a rain of razor-sharp shards that weigh no less than three pounds each.

Sometimes I scare myself with how versatile my power is.

Then the entire group of capes _jerks_ right before the rain of splinters strikes home.

The multi-limbed cape gets hit at least three times and the melted one take a spear to the belly, but neither's flight so much as stutters. The girl surrounded by silver orbs gets struck in the thigh, falling to one knee as two more spears cut uselessly through where her chest was. The other three capes somehow contort between every single projectile that falls from the sky.

"Fucking Thinker or Brute bullshite," Kat Sidhe mutters over the radio. "Going in."

"Wish me luck," Caress sing-songs in reply, excitement seeping into her voice.

A few blocks away from us two figures sprint out from opposite alleyways, closing in on the group. One flickers, then splits, two clones in slightly different black and white suddenly running beside them. They in turn flicker and split, bringing the count up to five. The one at the head of the pack tosses one, two, three, four axes behind him before swinging his own, the weapon's haft extending out into something that makes me think of longships and Beowulf. A wild cry rises from the pack of men, something old and vicious and furious.

A harsh rattling draws my focus to the other cape on the ground. Caress is lost in a whirlwind of chains as large as a car, all spinning so fast that I can't make out the human inside of them. The girl with the silver orbs and mutilated leg must be able to though, because she points her arm and the projectiles start moving through the air towards Caress, slowly picking up speed as they zip along odd paths towards their target.

"Ranged attack didn't work and you don't have the precision to shoot into melee. Let's engage!" Vapa hisses from behind me, wrapping her arms around my neck and tapping my chest. I shake my head free of distraction, then nod, holding my arms out to my side. "On mark. Two. One. Mark," she says, lifting up her legs as I snap my arms down, completing the piggyback. I throw a few bands of bone around her for safety, then grow some limbs and fall forward over the edge and into the water.

The splash is gargantuan, a veritable fountain that briefly obscures my vision of fight. I push through it, shaking water clear of my lenses as I tear through the knee-high water, Vapa's weight barely a hindrance. I pour on the speed, the group of capes growing rapidly in my vision. _Let's see how they bleed_.

One of the naked figures, a sickly woman with swollen joints and a face stretched into a grimace that shows more teeth than humanly possible, charges to meet the five black and white clones, the melted cape soaring above her seemingly unconcerned by the length of bone sticking out of his stomach. More silver spheres pop into existence around the legged cape and start streaking towards the whirlwind of chains as another naked man lopes towards Caress on limbs packed too tightly with muscle, more simian than biped, water cresting before his charge.

"Incoming!" Vapa shouts in my ear, a single talon pointing forward. The multi-limbed parahuman is flying towards us, still stabbed and still mobile. I can also make out the cape with the bandolier cocking an arm back, something glinting in her hand.

"Launch me," Vapa whispers into my ear. "I'll take the knife thrower!" she shouts, loud enough for everyone to have heard her, and I pick up on the plan and smirk behind my mask. _Good hunting_.

I take two more steps, then flip forward, extending bone to provide a platform for Vapa to kick off of. She doesn't miss a beat, and I feel the double impact of a pair of feet pressing down onto my back as she leaps into the air. By the time I'm vertical again she's grappling with the other cape in mid air, talons lashing out and mouth fastened to his neck. Then my eyes are locked on the cape in front of me _and it's time to kill_.

Its arms come down, glass flashing in the low light, and the lenses of my mask fracture, the bone armor keeping my head still through the impact. _Dangerous, then. Let's see her pull that trick off without fingers_. I immediately push a bone lattice over my lenses, but the damage is already done, my vision obscured by a spider web of cracks. I shed the damaged lens over my bad eye and look around. _Where are you?_ Running away, more glass flying from her hands as she retreats towards the legged cape. None of it's aimed at me, but I don't feel like waiting for whatever plan she's thinking up to come together so I dash forwards, stilts finding purchase in the water as more and more bone stretches out from my arms. I see a pair of eyes too large to be natural widen further as talons of bone close around her biceps, then watch them squint in pain as _I shred her muscles with serrated jaws of bone_. Despite all that she doesn't scream.

I pull her close, retracting bone until it's my fingers in the claws around her arms and my single unobstructed eye is glaring into her watering ones. Normally, looking at people head-on like this makes me uncomfortable, like I'm breaking some sort of social taboo. Right now though, I don't feel anything _other than disgust_.

"Rot," I whisper, lancing out bone from my chest to perforate the twisted cape. She chokes once, then goes still. I pull the bone back in and turn around to survey the rest of the fight.

The multi-limbed cape is gone, and Vapa is leaning against a wall a block away, two glass shards embedded in her chest. The five clones of Kat Sidhe are alternately chasing the stick-limbed woman and dodging out of the way of the melted flyer, who's trying to catch them but can't seem to keep up. A three-way game of tag, currently locked in stalemate.

The whirlwind of chains is retreating away from the muscle-bound monster, silvery bolts impacting on the outermost layers and slowly wearing them away. I can still hear laughter as I approach the fight, but it's pretty clear that Caress is on the back foot. The naked cape must have something that lets him bypass her chains, and the Blaster gives their side inevitability.

Well, she does until I _shove a blade of bone into her lungs_.

She wheezes once, then slumps forward, silver orbs fading out of existence. The muscle cape spins around, switching his gaze from the chains to the me, which slow for long enough to reveal a glimpse of Caress. She's clutching her side and has a rapidly-darkening eye socket, but otherwise seems okay, and after a short smile the chains start up again.

"He fucks with shit around him," Caress shouts, water turning to mist as she slowly drifts to the side, trying to pinch the cape between us. "Little pushes, but he's good at it."

The cape looks between the two of us and comes to a decision.

"Retreat!" he shouts, sprinting for the gap between us. Caress careens forwards, chains spinning in dizzying circles as she rushes after him. I'm faster though, and the sound of bone crashing through water comes out as one continuous _roar_. _Let's see how well you run missing a leg_. I reach out an arm, blade extending, aiming for a hamstring-

The cape spins around to glare at me. I feel myself stumble, center of balance swinging suddenly to the right and causing me to wipe out in the water. Liquid flows into my mask, and only judicious use of bone-creation keeps me from drowning. I shake my head, clear my air passages of water, and look up.

The muscle cape and the stick-limb woman are hanging off of the melted man, the three of them rapidly disappearing over the rooftops. Water ripples beside me as Caress's chains slowly come to a stop and I can hear the approaching splashing of multiple bodies slowly becoming less and less cacophonous until it's just one Kat Sidhe who stands next to me, axes once more stowed away somewhere on his person.

"They got away," Caress says, irritation clear in her voice.

"We got three o' them and they only wounded one o' us," Kat says, clapping me on the shoulder twice. "Good shit. Now come on, snake-lass might need a touch-up." With that he turns around, once more slogging through the water. After a moment, Caress follows him, muttering under her breath about there being two wounded.

I stand still, looking towards where the retreating capes went, waiting for my blood to cool. I take a breath, hold it, and let it go. When that doesn't work, I grit my teeth and resign myself to the impotence, shoving down the urge to shatter a rib.

I can't imagine how people handle _eye-splitting fury_ without powers, but I'm going to fucking have to. After another moment of fuming, I turn around, stilting after my temporary teammates. The night's still young, and Vapa probably needs help. No time for standing around being angry.

There's work to do.


	43. Scavenge 3

The strand of bone holding the bone arrow back _snaps_ as the tension my improvised spear-thrower had been placing on it finally becomes too much. A few moments later the dart tears through the chest of a naked cape, tall and thin and emaciated and now very, very dead.

A flying melted cape (we've been calling this variety Starfish) turns around in surprise, but Vapa is on it, falling from on top of a building and tackling it into the water. The remaining two capes in the enemy group are already moving, one twisted and previously-limping individual blurring with power-assisted speed towards the Kat Sidhe Squad. The other too-pale-to-be-human one is stumbling back from the thrashing mess of Vapa and monster clone in front of her when chains tear out of the water to wind around her with a clang, constricting shut with a rattle of metal and roar of displaced water.

I charge off the roof using stilts to slow my fall and land next to the grapplefest. Vapa disengages and rolls away through the water, small gouges dimpling her skin and clotting before my very eyes. For a moment, the melted cape seems surprised at the sudden change in opponent.

Then I'm hugging him, _shoving needles under his skin and expanding them, aiming for lungs and heart and brain and anything that feels fragile, severing tendons and leaving blades in their place_ until the cape is brain-dead and still. I disconnect carefully, letting the body fall forwards into the water as I scan for another target. The Starfish capes can regenerate from just about anything, but they can't shrug off the wounds themselves. That means Kat can leave a hatchet in their head and move on, but if he takes it out the cape gets back up. Cutting off their heads just leads to a second cape growing back (and wasn't _that_ a pleasant surprise?), so putting them down for good is up to me.

This makes four. Five, if I count the one I killed with Big Game.

The rest of the fight is wrapped up quickly. Vapa's bitten the cape with my dart through his chest, his emaciated limbs visibly seizing in pain as her venom removes any hope for recovery. Kat Sidhe checkmated his opponent, the Mover zipping from place to place trying to escape only to lose a leg to a short arc of silver. The clone (camouflage) brings the axe down again, hitting center of mass with a meaty _thunk_ I can hear over the rain twenty feet away, and the other four join in shortly afterward.

Where's the pale one?

"This one's hard to hurt," Caress comments casually, stepping out of the alleyway she'd been hiding in, naked save for her chain veil, and even that's more of a formality at this point than anything else. With Vapa's regeneration, my armor, and Kat's weird sort of reset, Caress is actually the most fragile of us. It shows, with bruises mottling her ribs, legs, and arms. I haven't heard her ask us to slow down yet though, even if she does occasionally throw out some good-natured gripes. "Doesn't seem to be able to breathe underwater though," she says in a sing-song voice, smiling happily as she taps the chain winding down her right arm and into the water. I follow its path to the rippling area of water where I presume she's holding the pale cape. I shiver.

Vapa's a Protectorate cape, and you can tell every time she opens her mouth. Everything from her diction to her strategy feels like it was critiqued, edited, and censored into the ideal balance between effectiveness and appearance with little left over for personality. Maybe that's hyperbole, but not by much. She does know what she's doing though, and she hasn't given me any real reason to dislike her.

Kat Sidhe's complicated. On the one hand, he says he's not a villain. On the other hand, he doesn't like talking about himself. After the second question from Caress about what he does outside of fighting biblical plagues, he flat out told us that he wasn't going to share anything and threatened to run off on his own. Vapa managed to soothe the resulting ruffled feathers, but the whole episode left a bad taste in my mouth. Besides that though, he's nice enough, striking the balance between providing advice and respect in a way that doesn't come across as patronizing or coddling.

And then there's Caress.

What can I say about Caress? She's a flirt, apparently without regard for sex. Aggressive, arrogant, with a sense of humor that's by turns bright as a firework and dark as anything Amy might say while elbow deep in a corpse. She's pretty and she knows it, the nicks and faint white lines that pepper her body worn with such confidence that I can't see them as blemishes. She smiles a lot, with a lot of subtle variations I think I could learn to enjoy reading.

She's also a villain, through and through.

Caress claimed the title like it was a badge of honor, something to be proud of, not a mark of shame. She described a few of her stunts for us, looking Vapa dead in the eye as she did. Robbing a museum and making off with a fortune in loose gems. Dismembering an out of town villain who had tried to step in on her territory, leaving the freshly-made cripple for the police to find. Fighting two, then three, Protectorate heroes to a standstill. Vapa's tail thrashed as Caress continued to speak, but it was Kat who finally called enough.

I don't know how to feel about her.

"Done!" Caress says, flicking her arm and bringing her massive spool of chain up and out of the water, intricate coils flowing back around her body like a living thing. Touch-range telekinesis, and of the 'crushing cars' variety. The pale corpse floats to the top of the water, face down and motionless. I see an undivided Kat wading towards us, and Vapa is shaking herself clean of water for what feels like the third time in ten minutes. "Where to next?" Caress asks, somehow still cheerful and energetic after half an hour of fighting.

"Up this street, third left," Kat says, poking at his bracelet as he moves through our group, oblivious. Caress follows him shortly after, humming tunelessly as she uses her chains as makeshift stilts to walk above the water. Vapa and I bring up the rear, her eyes glowing as she dips into her tool box of vision-based Thinker powers to look for threats while I form another bone javelin, ready to unload on anyone who sticks their head out.

Figuring out how to structure our group was fairly easy. Kat is a one-man front line, Caress trumps a huge number of non-strikers, Vapa is the only one of us with a sensory power worth noting, and I'm versatile and mobile enough to act as support for whoever runs into a bad match up. None of us can ignore physics in a way that deals with the more troublesome breakers or brutes, but Caress is imaginative and I can always _pop them like fucking balloons_ with a sphere of bone in the cranial cavity.

In my opinion, what's more impressive is the organization of the people calling the shots, the thinkers and strategists, the ones planning and adapting to the chaos of the fight. Leviathan tore the gathering of anti-Erinye capes apart, and inside of ten minutes they had the survivors on organized hunter/killer missions, slowly hemming in the monster and containing her summons while keeping the whole mess clear of the Endbringer.

The enemy isn't exactly rolling over, though. Each cell of warped parahumans we've run across has had a very specific composition: one Thinker, one Starfish, and two to three other combat capes. The Thinkers keep ambushes from being perfectly effective (only two out of the five of our attacks actually got all the capes in the pod), while the more mobile parahuman clones can evacuate their companions. It's a group composition that prioritizes keeping forces alive and gathering information, not fighting. Sure, they'd be trouble for a squad of PRT agents without containment foam, but the four of us have never been seriously threatened by this trash.

It makes me worried.

Where are the dangerous ones?

"Next patrol should be coming in around ten minutes," Kat says, snapping me out of my thoughts. He shakes out his arms and heads towards an alleyway, a hatchet already in his hand. Caress does the same on the opposite side of the street, chain slipping from her form to hide in the mucky water. I turn around and hold my arms out to my sides. Vapa jumps onto my back, I catch her legs, and we begin the slow ascent to the rooftops.

They're repetitive, these ambushes. Like making roses for the Pale Garden, or going to school, or healing people, with about the same amount of variation. It's easier though, because the potential fallout of me failing here is so much less complicated. With the healing, things could turn out poorly even if I did my job right. With the roses, I can do everything perfectly and that will be the reason it doesn't sell, the uncanny valley dividing me from profits. With school, there were no happy endings, only less miserable ones.

Here if I screw up, I get hurt. If I screw up badly, I die.

Simple.

"Spot for me," I say, making another area-of-effect javelin and stepping back across the rooftop until the street is out of sight. Vapa continues to stare off into the distance, a purple and green gargoyle, the rain drops in front of her eyes illuminated by the shine of her power.

"Three blocks out, little to no wind. No change in rain. On mark," she says, and I ready my weapon.

Two groups later the routine changes.

* * *

"We're closing in on Erinye herself," Kat says, mask pulled up to his nose and mouth half-full of burger. The restaurant's sign looks melted off and the surrounding block is in ruins, but this particular place has somehow avoided total annihilation. Once again Caress broke open the door, once more Vapa left contact information for reimbursement, and Kat started flipping burgers almost immediately. I made a table and chairs, and we're refueling while he lays out the situation. He swallows, then takes a sip of his Coke before continuing.

"Notice how we only found two more patrols?" he asks. "That's 'cause she hasn't sent out many. Other groups aren't finding shit, and control's getting antsy."

"So we're going to be attacking her head on?" Caress asks, already finished with her food. She'd tried to get into the bar earlier, but Vapa and Kat both made it clear that fighting drunk wasn't an option so she settled for the chocolate ganache cake I found in the freezer. She currently has her chair tilted on its two back legs, a chain wrapped around the table to keep her balanced. "Didn't you want to do that earlier?"

"And now that we've properly contained the threat, we can," Vapa says, eyes narrowing. She ate a few dozen raw eggs, then chased them with two uncooked burger patties. Caress and Kat didn't make a big deal of it, but I had to push away my fish after seeing that bulge in her throat slide down into her chest. "What's the plan?" she asks, switching her gaze to Kat, who shrugs as he shovels a few more fries into his mouth.

"They're gonna be a bit more careful about who they send in," he says, wiping his fingers on a napkin. "Breakers, Tinkers, Blasters with range, Masters with dismissable minions, and a few Changers only."

"People who can resist her Striker power or who don't need to be close to do damage," I say, nodding along.

"Exactly," Kat says, finishing his burger. "Everyone else is gonna hang around the edges and keep the survivors from getting away. That's us," he says, motioning to Vapa, Caress, and himself. "They want you in the main group," he says quietly.

I take a deep breath, then let it out, shifting my seat back so I can recline and look at the ceiling, resignation pooling in my stomach. I feel a hand cover mine, and when I look down Vapa's resting her scaled fingers over mine.

"Want, not need," she says firmly, meeting my gaze. "There are other capes. Everything about this is voluntary-"

"I'll do it," I say, interrupting her and gently brushing her hand away. "I just need a minute to think." A strange expression comes across Vapa's face, made even more unreadable by the inhuman body language. Caress is still smiling, but it's tight-lipped, and she's spinning her fork angrily around her palm in a way that isn't quite possible for a normal human.

Kat's the one to break the silence.

"Directions should be comin' up on your wrist right about now," he says, tapping his bracelet twice. Sure enough, the tech chimes, and when I look down there's an arrow pointing off to the side. "Give 'em hell," he says, pulling his mask back down and standing up, then twisting in place far enough to crack his spine, sending a loud series of _pops_ echoing throughout the deserted room. Vapa makes a face.

"Was that absolutely necessary?" Vapa asks, pushing herself away from the table. "Such an action is terrible for your back."

"It really isn't," I say, tension flowing out of me as I force myself not to laugh at the unbelievably banal small talk from capes who were killing people not even an hour ago. "Generally speaking, the only people who should worry about hurting themselves that way are-"

"Neeeeeeeeerd," Caress interrupts, brushing past us all to get to the door, a tendril of chain pushing it open as she walks out into the rain. We watch her go, the screen door wheezing shut behind her agonizingly slowly, finally closing with a loud click. The remaining three of us stand there awkwardly, not sure what to say or where to look.

"Bye, I guess," I say, backing up towards the door. Vapa nods once, as does Kat Sidhe.

"Good hunting," he says, offering a small wave.

"Don't die," Vapa says awkwardly, patting me on the shoulder. I don't think she knows how to deal with someone else stepping into a more dangerous situation than her. I put on an empty smile behind my mask.

"I'll try not to," I reply, stepping outside.

Then I stop.

Caress is standing under an umbrella of chains, the rain making near-music as it pounds down onto the metal. Her veil is thicker this time, covering her eyes, and her mouth is set, grim as a grave.

"I'm not handling a dozen fragile roses through the rest of the battle. I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good," Caress says, jerking her head down the street. I follow her as she starts to walk, both of us forming stilts to stay out of the worst of the wet.

"So, I'm going to work with those two guys all nice-like, right?" she says, pointedly not looking at me. "It's going to be a pain in the ass, but I'm going to do it. Pretty sure we never agreed on a price, so you're going to pay me whatever I think is fair for my help after we're done here, got it?"

"Okay," I say, wanting to look at my bracelet to get directions but also knowing that Caress is trying for something more. Where is this going?

"I'll wait in Lincoln Park every third Wednesday," she says, glaring straight ahead, one hand clenching and unclenching at her side. The chains at the end of her pseudo-dress are writhing and lashing, kicking up sprays of water as they slide against one another.

"Sounds like a plan," I say cautiously.

"Good," Caress says curtly.

We walk for a few more moments in silence.

"Fuuuuuuuuuck," Caress moans, stopping in place and scrubbing at her head with both hands, metal clanking against metal as the umbrella wraps back around her. "I'm fucking useless with this shit. Just meet me in Chicago. We'll figure the rest out there," she says, turning to face me, eyes focused and hard. "Come back, alright?" she asks, a new tenderness in her voice that I don't recognize. I try to puzzle it out, thinking about where I've heard similar examples.

A hug in the rain. In my living room. After a funeral.

I blink, dumbstruck.

"I'm fifteen," I say slowly. The chains stop, frozen in mid air.

"Oh," she says. For a moment, we both just stand there, staring at one another.

"Fuck," she says quietly, looking away from me, veil moving to cover the lower half of her face. "Forget I said anything." The words sound cold and harsh, filtered through metal and crushing sorrow. She starts striding back towards the restaurant, chains lying flat, lifeless. Unsure of what to say, I watch her go until she disappears back into the restaurant.

Then I shake my head and stilt up to the rooftops.

I don't have time to think about whatever this could've been. I have work to do.

* * *

The gathering point is ten minutes away. Maybe the travel time could've been shorter, but the bracelet took me on a circuitous route that went around natural choke points and avoided open ground. In the distance I can see other capes either strafing something concealed from sight by the cityscape or bounding along towards my destination as well. Echoes of the battle reach my ears, faint and indistinct, making me feel...

Restless.

This time the rendezvous is in the parking lot of a strip mall, potholes and parking lines concealed by a slightly-lower flooding. I'm not the first to arrive, but I'm also clearly not the last, with another pair of capes coming in as I watch, one floating down in a truly massive suit of power armor and the other surfacing in a spray of water and black limbs.

This is the smallest staged group I've joined today. Maybe a dozen people total, each and every one of them looking oddly refreshed and relaxed. One woman is even reclining on the hood of a Hummer, light green sundress riding up her thighs and plastered to her body. She's not alone. A bare-chested man with greasy blond hair is leaning on the car, arms crossed and a jovial expression on his face as he chats with her, words indiscernible through the pounding rain. He stops talking when I show up though, a broad grin stretching across his face.

"If it isn't fuckin' Rosie," he says, arms dropping to his side as he splashes through the wet, stride unimpeded by the shin-high water. "Good to see you're still standin'. Where've you been kickin' around?" he asks, extending his arm, elbow bent at a right angle and hand up. I look him up and down, taking in the wolf-on-swastika tattoo on one shoulder and E88 tattoo on the other.

Then the pieces fall into place and only my fused bones keep me from taking a step back in surprise.

"Hookwolf?" I ask incredulously. He shrugs and drops his hand, the other one going up to his head to scratch through sodden hair.

"Yup," he replies, quirking an eyebrow. "We gonna trade answers or something?" he asks.

"Yes, and that counts," I snap, some vestigial instinct throwing out the answer as the other half of my brain re-asses the man in front of me. "Why are you here?" Certainly his costume didn't hide much, but I always expected his face to be different. Ugly, maybe, or heavily scarred. There are a few white flecks on his cheeks, and his nose is crooked in a way that I assume means that it's been broken a few times, but other than that he looks surprisingly normal. Rugged, yes, and frankly scary, but I wouldn't be able to pick him out of a line up of other Empire thugs.

At least, I _wouldn't've_ been able to.

Hookwolf throws his head back and laughs at my response, a deep and throaty thing that causes several heads to turn in our direction. Thankfully my mask conceals my flush, but I still have to push down the urge to shatter a bone in response to the sudden increase in attention.

"Fair 'nuff," he says, laughter subsiding as he looks me in the eye. He has to tilt his up to do it, but he also doesn't seem bothered by that fact. If anything, it puts a smile on his face, one that's surprisingly unguarded for a neo-Nazi. "Anyway, I'm here 'cause I can't cut Leviathan more 'n a few inches deep. They need someone good at killing for this monster, though." He lifts up one hand, the fingers unspooling into blades, hooks, and spikes. "See, that I can do. Now, mind giving me the details on where you've been?" he asks, blades pulling back underneath his skin as he drops both hands down to hook into the pockets of his jeans.

"The healer tent," I say, composing myself. "My powers interact well with Isidis, Alabaster, and another cape." I can't bring myself to deny him the information, so I settle for saying it as flatly as possible. Hookwolf nods agreeably.

"Othala's always jawing about how overworked she is," Hookwolf says, shaking his head ruefully. "Nice to hear she's been gettin' a bit of help." A few strands of blond hair plaster themselves across his face as a particularly vicious squall rolls through. He pulls them away from his eyes, grimacing. "Storm's brewing," he mutters, turning to look over his shoulder, and I follow his gaze. The clouds look like they're congregating, getting denser, darker, and even lower to the ground than before.

"Alright everyone, listen up!" a voice shouts, two loud claps echoing behind it. I tear my eyes away from the sky, searching for the source of the command. I don't have to look long.

The cape is a striking woman in a grey bodysuit and a crimson mask, a few bolts of the same color breaking up her otherwise dull outfit. I hear a few people mutter something vaguely complementary towards her, but besides that the lot is silent save for the pitter patter of rain and roar of wind.

"I'm Cineral, and I'm in charge," she says, looking each person in the eye in turn. I manage not to shudder as her cold grey orbs meet mine, but it's close. "We're the melee force. There aren't a lot of us because Erinye will beat basically anyone in close-range combat." She pauses to let that sink in, then continues. "You're here because you're tough, fast, and can bring the hurt without getting turned against us if you trip into her. Kill her minions, keep eyes on the S-Class threat, and leave damaging her to the blasters. Don't try to engage her unless you don't have any other choice, and if you do, run as soon as you can and let a big gun take her out. And no, you're not a big gun," she says, voice growing hard enough to shatter diamond. "I can burn a building to ash in less than minute. If you can't top that, you can't do anything that matters to her. Everyone clear?" she asks, waiting for dissent. I look at Hookwolf for a moment, and he looks back at me before turning forward and nodding, face drawn and serious, already pushing out blades. The other capes give their own acknowledgements, ranging from barely perceptible gestures to hackle-raising howls.

This is it.

I take a breath, inhaling salt and mist and cold night air. It's almost dark enough to need light, the odd shadows cast by the powers in use around me making us all look a little less human.

Then I let it out and nod, needles and blades spilling out of my armor.

Cineral looks at the group for a moment longer, then turns on her heel, walking back the way she came.

"The S-Class threat is this way. Let's go."


	44. Scavenge 4

When Erinye attacked the triage tents, she did more than just kill a few wounded and throw us into disarray: she also kidnapped some of the on-site Thinkers, capes who had a form of clairvoyance or future sight that required close proximity to whatever they were trying to predict. That meant that any sort of ambush was likely to be ineffective, and that we'd never be able to properly surprise her.

So we don't bother being subtle.

Hookwolf is tearing through the water next to me, eating up the ground in long, loping strides that send spray everywhere, the droplets curving in the wind. Another cape keeps pace next to him, four armed and four legged, her panther-like face twisted up into something nearly euphoric as she shoots along the ground. The reclining cape from before flies silently above us, somehow untouched by the rain. The rest of the group lags a little bit behind us, and it's a challenge not to outpace them.

Both sides of the conflict have Thinktanks, and since the clones retain their memories we're at a slight disadvantage. Erinye will know most of the potential powers we could bring to bear, and has a lot of redundant abilities and as many Thinkers as she wants. On the other hand, there are so many people peering into what could be that no one on either side can make heads nor tails out of it. As a result, it's likely to come down to a straight fight rather than mind games, a brawl where both sides have perfect information on the opposing side's movements. In that battle, we might have the upper hand, if only just, because Erinye has yet to absorb any truly terrifying capes.

We don't intend to give her a chance to.

"ETA is two minutes," my bracelet murmurs. It's Cineral's voice, harsh but not uncaring, and I tear my mind away from the chase and focus on the words. "Projectiles will be incoming momentarily. Flak 41 and a few other Blasters will try to shoot them out of the air. Tank only what you can't dodge, and if there's a residual Shaker effect call it out." I look up at the horizon expectantly, but I don't see anything yet.

Then a line of white light comes out of nowhere and blows one of my bone limbs out from under me and the fight's begun.

* * *

I remember trawling PHO at one point and coming across a thread on the use of capes in wars. It eventually devolved into corner cases, technicalities, and trolling, but up until that point it was actually pretty interesting, if a little above my level as a non-college student without a background in either historical warfare or parahuman studies. A few things stuck out to me, though.

The first was the importance of recognizing that a power used incorrectly is frequently worse in a fight than a well-trained man with a gun. While it took a while, the thread eventually came to the general consensus that properly used powers almost universally have the potential to be more dangerous than a well-equipped human, and if you have a Blaster who can't necessarily kill people with one shot, chances are there's a better way to use them.

The second was recognizing that anything resembling traditional tactics and strategy would more or less fly out the window. Your army needs to be able to see one another and enact Master/Stranger protocols, but then area-of-effect Blasters and Shakers will ravage your forces. Retreating from high-rating Movers is near-impossible, as is running a guerilla war versus any group of Thinkers worth the name. The only counter to a group of multiple precogs is your own group, in which case they both end up doing nothing but giving each other headaches. Different Brutes operate under different rules, which requires different answers for each, and carrying kit to deal with all of them would be prohibitively heavy, difficult, and expensive. In short, nothing about modern warfare is applicable in a truly large-scale engagement of parahumans.

The third is that the chain of command in a parahuman/human army would require a complete rework. Any random foot soldier can become a war-winning cape inside of a day, and people who were giving them orders a day ago will have to learn to bend the knee to them. That alone would require a total restructuring of how each individual human being was treated, but then there's the hierarchy within the parahumans _themselves_. Do you assign rank by experience? By power level? A cape's relative threat rating is only loosely connected to how long they've had their ability, and handing out authority to whoever won the power lottery strikes no one as a good idea.

There was really only one person considering what the ground-level view would be like, though. One person who speculated on the potential personal experience of a parahuman on the front lines of a battle with a huge number of powers active at the same time. They said it would be the single most hellish conflict a human could process for about five minutes, and then they'd probably be dead.

RedLeadLord was half right.

I don't know how many Blasters Erinye was able to nab, but there are enough of them to turn the streetlamp-free night bright as noon, filling the air with projectiles, lasers, and barely-perceptible blasts of _something_ so numerous and dense that they briefly obscure the sky. Almost none of them make it to the ground. Instead, they're intercepted by lances of pure white light, wildly ricocheting stars the size of pin balls, or simply pop out of existence halfway to their targets. After maybe ten seconds, the barrage lets up, the projectiles moving over our heads as the ranged parahumans start focusing on one another, leaving the street still bright but deserted.

Not for long, though.

More than a dozen Starfish capes fly towards us, brown thunderbolts screaming through the rain just over the water to avoid getting caught in the crossfire above. The woman in the sundress suddenly accelerates ahead of me, one arm stuck out in front of her, fingers grasping for something. One Starfish twists in mid-air to avoid it and swipes at her chest, only to move straight through without any effect.

What?

The sundress cape's own arm spins around in a pale blur, passing through the Starfish's head, and it falls to the ground, blood leaking from its ears. It starts to get up almost immediately though, both hands pushing it up and out of the water, murder in its eyes.

 _No_.

I reach down as I charge by, fingers of bone lengthening and twining into a lance, and _stab the Starfish in the head, hooks springing from the shaft to catch his ribs and chest as I drag him along and replace his meat with bone_. I let the lance drop, the body attached sinking into the water behind me as I look up to watch the sundress cape.

She's tearing through the Starfish, a dream amongst monsters. None of them can so much as touch her, and where her arms pass bodies contort and twist, falling out of the sky. They don't stop getting back up though, and only a few of the capes around me bother to help her keep them down. I grit my teeth at the _sheer Sisyphean uselessness of it all_ and remedy that by _stabbing every Starfish I see writhing on the ground, leaving them pinned, pierced, and finally_ ** _dead_** _-_

"Incoming!" someone shouts, and I tear myself away from the grisly task to look for the new threat. Sure enough, a counter charge has already been organized. There are enough clones to fill the street completely, one body indistinguishable from the next as they shamble forwards.

For a moment, I falter.

That's a _lot_ of capes.

Then a Tinker in a suit of power armor so large it might be closer to a mech steps forward, at least twelve feet tall, all angular planes and dark metal. They lift a hand, blue arcs of lighting flowing from the ground and environment to gather in their palm, forming a sphere of crackling energy the size of a beach ball.

"Ground yourselves!" they shout. I have enough presence of mind to stilt over to a nearby building and jump out of the water, break my eardrums, and put as much of my bone and skin in contact with the concrete as possible before-

There's a hot, blue flash that makes me feel tingly, even from this far away, even through my bone. I repair my ears, still ringing and fragile even though I saved the bones from the blast, and shift my vision back to the Tinker. Half a dozen monsters lie scorched and spasming in front of them, with only two still able to move. The Tinker is fending them off easily enough though, one with each hand, electricity by turns snapping out to deflect attacks or scorch flesh.

I still can't hear anything.

I see a long-limbed cape dashing below me, a simian thing that looks too swollen and too flushed with blood to be healthy. I gauge the distance carefully, then let go of the wall.

The fall is short, made infinitesimally shorter when I impact the cape's back before the water, something crackling familiarly beneath my feet. I don't let up, slipping bone through fragile skin, _winding, twisting, cutting, and never letting up until the flesh beneath my feet feels more like liquid than meat_ -

Something hard slams into me and I feel the lightness of falling with none of my usual control.

It's almost peaceful.

Then I slam back down into the water, push myself up, and bare my teeth at my attacker, blades and needles rippling out of my armor as I prepare to face the new threat.

 _Who_ ** _dares_** _?_

A virtual mountain of a man does, taller than I am and far more massive, with hands large enough to palm a beach ball and a comparatively tiny skull perched on top of an obscenely thick neck. It twists its face into a smile, jagged and deformed teeth glistening in the rainy night.

"No one likes you, you know," he says in a comically high voice, plodding forward in water that's past my knees and not even all the way up his shins. "They're just too afraid of you to tell you the truth. That you're a hypocrite. A liar." I feel a brief twinge at the words, then harden myself.

 _Enough of that_.

I sprint forwards, fingers and hooks twisting out of my arms _ready to flay the filth before me_. The giant's smart though, and one legs comes around in an arc, sending water everywhere. I roll forwards under the spray as an open hand passes through where my torso would've been. Blind luck, but it worked. I duck into his space and slash my arm across his chest-

Only to have to pull away, breaking my connections to the bone weapons and leaving them behind as they get stuck in gummy meat that feels less like flesh and more like rubber glue, the shards _twisting_ into ultra-fine sea urchins and doing _nothing_. A few bone stilts get me out of melee range and I'm wary now, eyeing up the mass of flesh like a primed bear trap.

The monster's tiny mouth twists into a hideous grin, all chips of frustratingly-resistant bone and wrinkled lips, and it spreads its arms wide as it crouches down into something like a wrestling stance, fingers wriggling in anticipation.

"Your power really makes sense, you know," the monster says conversationally. "You change yourself, trying to fit in, trying to take control of your life, but it's just a shell, and a brittle one at that. One sharp strike-"

"Hey ugly!" a voice shouts. I flick my eyes to the side just in time to see a mass of blades and hooks the size of a semi truck come out of nowhere to slam into the side of the monster. "Try me on for size," Hookwolf growls, the screech of metal on metal punctuating the meaty ripping noises as blood and gore start spraying out _behind_ him.

For a moment, I have an obscene flashback to the medical tent and can't help but smile at the sight.

 _Great minds think alike_.

Then I feel an impact in my lower back and roll with it, coming out of the water facing the direction it came from.

This cape looks like a snake made of arms, with fangs formed of bone and skulls for eyes. Its maw goes wide as it hisses, and I _twist_ , shattering both teeth and eyes, but the cape just screams at me, in irritation or pain or some combination of the two, loud enough to blow the rain towards me and send water spraying away from it. I push out a pair of blades along my arms and charge forward, trusting my bone to find purchase in the water as the melee begins in earnest.

The most hellish thing a human could process, for about five minutes.

After that you're either used to it or dead.

* * *

I lose track of how the fight is going. I think a lot of people do.

The battleground moves as the night goes on and the storm gets worse. I think it must be command directing us towards Erinye. There are no clear orders, no voices coming from my wrist, but I notice the iron-clad cape and the sundress woman blocking off streets and killing any monster that comes within arm's reach, murdering until the bodies lay around like action figures scattered by some errant god, and the monsters eventually stopped running into the killing grounds.

It helped, thinking of them as monsters.

Eventually, I started noticing patterns. The flying capes were hard to put down, in a way that never left you certain that they were dead. They were Starfish or Octopi, either extremely fast and capable of regenerating through just about anything or armed with four extra limbs and only a shade more killable. There was another type on the ground that was smart and variable, like it never stopped learning, never stopped subtly changing its form, never stopped _talking_.

I let Hookwolf kill those ones. He was good at it. In return, I would double up on the fliers, on the gossamer striders that would float out of his reach and rain caustic flakes of green and red on everyone, on the strange strain of capes that couldn't be cut and had to be suffocated but were strong enough to ignore things like half a ton or more of angry metal Nazi.

 _Turns out you can't ignore getting your lungs filled with bone._

Then I would move on to the next one, a constant cacophony of pain and rain drowning out everything but the wet red movement of bone, bodies, and fighting.

"Boost me," a voice whispers in my ear, all sticky vowels and rumbling consonants, throaty and aggressive in a way that makes me think of big cats and the time Mom read me Sula before bed when I asked her about sex. This isn't Bloody Mary's first time calling me up though, so instead of lashing out I spin around, catch two of her four rising feet, then push up as she pushes down. I hear a _thump_ as she impacts her target, as well as a victorious howl that drowns out the ever-present pitter-patter, and a brief scream from whoever ( _whatever_ , I correct myself, they're not people) the eight-limbed cape has chosen as prey.

Then I stick both my arms out, one straight left and the other straight right, spear two Master minions back into strange half-here-half-not hexagons, and move on to search for their creator.

* * *

I think we're winning.

We must be. We started with twelve and change, and now there are eleven of us. I don't know who's missing, where they went, or what they could do, but I assume that they must have sold themselves dearly. In the brief lulls when the fighting drops to merely intense rather than frantic, where I can afford to take a moment to stick my head under a broken drainpipe for a sip of rainwater or just collapse against the side of a building for long enough to take three deep breaths, panting without having to force my lungs further open to make sure I don't black out, I think about just how much I've changed since Winslow. How Taylor has become White Rose almost full time, how I now have a body count to rival most Empire members (if monsters count as people), how nothing I could've done with a high school diploma comes remotely close to _this_.

In those brief moments, I catch glimpses of my reflection in the flooded streets. I can't help it, really. It seems like half the powers in play involve creating light, which turns the ground into one giant mirror, constantly shifting at the steps of others.

What I see is different. My armor, usually pale and smooth, has turned into something horrible, all serrated edges winding around limbs, the lines jagged where bone broke off or was pushed out. My mask has shifted once more, the avian beak replaced by thorns ready to _twist_ and _stab_ and _reach out to pull-_

I feel something bite into my shoulder and try to burrow, and only the swift release of an armor panel keeps it from consuming me completely. A naked woman stumbles past me, not ready for the sudden shift in her center of gravity. I stab her twice, long, thin needles sliding in place roughly where a human heart would be and a monster heart would be close enough to, breaking them off before the bite and burrow can chase its way back to me. The naked woman falls back, legs jerking oddly as they slowly give out. I cast my eyes around, looking for the next threat.

Break over.

I spot a cape that's blurry around the edges wave his hand at an incoming Starfish, which vanishes with a bang into a cloud of expanding gas. I fire off some flak behind me, eating the pain with an almost apathetic stoicism as I walk over towards him, sizing the cape up as I leave bone splinters and screaming behind me. He has scars, bright white ones, across his face and neck. There's a wispiness around the end of his limbs, like he's made of a mirage, and he has empty, smoke-filled pits where his eyes should be. I catch a raised eyebrow at my approach, but he doesn't do whatever he did to the Starfish to me so I take it as approval and step close enough I could touch him. He's smoking, the cigarette long enough for me to think it must be fresh, and oddly scentless.

The smoking cape takes a long drag on the cigarette, the bright glow of the embers at the end never moving down the stick, then points to a pair of capes walking across the battlefield, lopsided and gangly as newborn deer without any of the grace. Somehow untouched, they're making a beeline for him through the melee, slipping between individual battles without so much as slowing down. He gestures and a pair of icicles appear in the air, floating for a moment before shooting off with a _boom_ , missing me by inches to tear into two of the flying capes and send them tumbling, lost to the chaos. I look at the smoking cape, a question on my lips, but he grimaces and taps his head, then mimes a single tear sliding down his cheek. Another wave of his hand and a trio of capes disappears in a _foof_ of steam, fire that doesn't go away, and screaming.

I shake my head, then charge at the two capes. Not sure what I was supposed to get from that, but targets are targets. I slide under a cape made of shuddering static and white noise that has one arm intersecting with the head of a brittle-looking cape screaming in agony, duck under the backswing of a massive monster, and try to stab one of the-

- _fear, nothing but fear, in wavering green eyes as I point a blade at a girl who can't be older than me_ -

-diverting the blade and tripping as my stilts tangle in one another. I hear giggling, barely audible over the din, and shake myself as I stand back up, blinking my eyes behind my mask as I stare at the two capes, both now focused on me.

What the _fuck_ was that?

"She tried to hurt us," one of them says. He's lanky, too lanky, like someone picked up a boy and _pulled_ , treating the human body like so much saltwater taffy without regard for proportion or balance.

"Naughty, naughty," the other says, shaking a head that has one too-large eye and one too-sharp tooth tearing at his lip to no apparent effect, a caricature of boyish curiosity. "What do you think we should do to her?"

I lash out at the snaggle-toothed-

-" _Taylor, I love you, please tell me what's going on," Dad asks but this time he's nearly crying, eyes watering and_ -

-little fuck that sends my arm skittering to the side. Again, what the _fuck_? I feel myself nearly vomit, and I have to shatter ribs to stay aware as I back up, holding myself still using my shell as I stare impassively at them. They laugh again, the two of them nearly falling over in their mirth, and I _snap_.

Fine.

 _Let's see how they handle a flaying_.

I turn the image of their faces over in my head, focusing on them until they almost look like _Emma_ , and I grit my teeth as I charge again-

- _"_ _Go home, Taylor. I didn't ask you to come over," Emma says and I feel something go fragile in_ -

-and this time the murdering _takes_ and _I put enough ruler-thin blades into their bellies that I'm the only thing holding them together_. For a moment I'm close enough to hear their breath catch as they lose use of the bottom half of their lungs, close enough to hear the surprise in their voice.

Then I push them away, spinning around to find someone else to vent the excess self-loathing on.

We must be winning. Most of us can't be hurt, and those of us who are vulnerable are either lucky or can shrug it off. The clones stand for maybe seconds before each of us, hoping to find a combination of powers that can crack one of us before the others tear them to shreds, all while our Blasters ravage their back lines and the truly scary capes get ever closer to coming over here and wiping them out.

We have to be winning.


	45. Scavenge 5

The sounds of Blasters unloading grows louder as the eleven of us slowly murder our way through the shrinking waves of minions separating us from Erinye, each group less prepared and more frantic than the last. They've become increasingly unbalanced, increasingly desperate to harm us, and as the fight goes on I become more and more sure of our victory. Silently, through action and experience, we've learned whose powers work best against what species of monster, and now we're calling out targets to one another, marking each not-person for death by whoever happens to have the closest thing to a counter, a collective that's more than the sum of its parts.

We're winning.

Proof comes when I slip bone into the soft spot just under the earlobe of a rather pretty cape with too many eyes glaring out of her arms, bursting past her and searching for targets as I find myself unable to bleed off the rest of my momentum. As I let her rapidly-stilling corpse fall out of my hands, I find that I can't locate any more monsters to fight. There are a few engaging my teammates behind me, but for once when I look forward all I see is Brockton Bay, flooded and shattered and somehow still standing.

In that moment I feel a weight lift from my shoulders.

 _We can do this_.

Then Erinye tears around the corner.

She's tall, taller than Leviathan. Wider too, with at least three times his volume. Where Leviathan looks sleek and smooth though, she looks _wrong_. A mass of half-mutated body parts from both animals and humans, cobbled together without rhyme or reason, with mouths and limbs and eyes sewn together without regard for either aesthetics or function, bile and blood spilling out of her whenever she moves, twisted arms and legs pushing awkwardly off the ground to shove the whole mess around. A human torso sits on top of it all, naked and hairless, and for a moment I can see a truly _haggard_ face, one that looks like it's been fighting for years, not hours.

I think she sees me too, and for a moment, there's nothing but the pitter-patter of rain as we stare at one another.

Then two bodies spill out of an open mouth, limbs twisted and thin, eyes bright with murder. I bring up my blades to face her minions as she dashes down a different street, thundering footsteps sending great gouts of water into the air as she flees and I go back to fighting her creations. These ones' torsos are so twisted they can barely breathe, and a pair of quick cuts send them tumbling down without a chance to engage their powers. Erinye is gone by then, a fading rumble in the distance.

Well, gone for now.

* * *

The second time I see Erinye, I nearly become a casualty.

At this point the tables have turned completely and the monsters are now trying to ambush us, to find a way to tilt the odds in their favor against our superior firepower and numbers.

"Incoming attack at ten o'clock, one and four," my bracelet chimes out. A woman in a skin-tight suit with a green and red optical illusion on it steps forward, waving her hand dismissively as she sways her non-existent hips.

"I got this," Asher says confidently. "Mop up after me?" she asks coyly, throwing a wink over her shoulder. The Tinker in the gargantuan power armor steps after her, a blue glow flickering around the square eye holes in their helmet.

"Prepared to engage," they say, arms coming up with a hum that we've all grown familiar with. I take a few steps away, even if I know intellectually it's safe. Grounder has yet to hit anyone they haven't meant to hit with a bolt of whatever lightning derivative it is they generate, but being around them makes my hair stand on end and sets my teeth grating. There's too much static and just-barely-audible noise for me to be comfortable. Asher doesn't seem to mind though, and continues to stroll through the water, liquid turning to mist as it comes into contact with her legs.

The tension ramps up as the seconds tick by, each person reacting one of two ways. The truly powerful capes loosen up, the ones who have instantly-lethal powers, the ones that haven't worried about being hurt in a long, long time. Morpheus sucks on his cigarette and grows a little more blurry, Titania starts humming to herself, still untouched by anyone and everyone, and Bloody Mary shakes herself like a dog, sending water and gore everywhere.

"Watch it," Snow growls, his monochromatic static field flickering as it gets doused in the pink mist. Bloody Mary just growls something that sounds like satisfaction and grins at him, baring teeth the size of butcher knives. The haggard cape looks away first, one hand clenching and unclenching, a blast of whatever fuck-you his power is made of dropping from it and doing something to the water, pushing it away from him.

Snow is from the other group of capes, the ones that are here because they're good at staying alive and killing people. Composed of veterans with good but not great powers and rookies who've made a splash, no one in this group is indestructible. Hookwolf is difficult to hurt, but I saw him hanging back against a monster with a disintegrating touch. Snow's fuck-you field isn't always on, and only a combination of reflexes, good luck, and backup from Analog has kept him alive. Shrike is mobile and dangerous, but her prostheses don't have the same sort of tankiness as the rest of us so she has to be careful not to cut too deep into anyone and get stuck.

That group, my group, is just a little more fragile, a little more on-edge.

Asher stares at an intersection for a moment before turning around, a pout on her face.

"What's a girl gotta do to-"

The rest is cut off when a building nearby explodes outwards, sending debris flying through the air. What little would hit us gets intercepted by spontaneous explosions, bright orange flares knocking rocks the size of trash cans aside. Monsters stream out of the rubble, a sudden rush with numbers we haven't seen since the tide at the beginning of the campaign.

Behind them, Erinye.

A twisted cape sits on either side of her human torso, gnarled hands gripping slim shoulders as Erinye (she doesn't look older than twenty) surveys the battlefield. She says something, the words lost to the rain, and the crowd _surges_ forward, a tidal wave of mangled flesh and flaring powers.

"Down!" Hookwolf shouts, slapping me to the side as he takes his own advice and crouches into the water. Asher flies through the space where I just was, clipping him and turning a patch of metal on his side to dust as she passes through it.

I push myself back up, the mass of Brute-alikes nearly upon us, and spray bone fragments at them, backpedaling, trying to make space. Hookwolf charges into the fray, my projectiles bouncing harmlessly off of him as the monsters prepare to learn whether they can stand up to a living chainsaw the size of a shipping container.

Most of them can't.

"Need an esoteric effect!" Shrike shouts, the insect-limb jigsaws she has instead of arms whirling around her as she tears through the enemy capes, keeping just out of range of their counterattacks and leaving the would-be offenders to stumble into traps of spinning blades. "Cutting a guy and it's not working!"

A warble sounds out across the battlefield as black replaces white and white replaces black, and for a moment I feel like I'm floating, lost in a monochrome void...

Only to crash back into reality, stumbling from a sudden bout of vertigo. I'm not the only one. More than half the monsters are either on the ground or hunched over and clutching their heads from Analog's attack. Bloody Mary is growling but back to moving after a few tentative steps, while Hookwolf and Titania are having a field day among the staggered minions. After a moment Analog joins the fray, lighting and flashes of Snow's static lashing out and carving swathes through the mutated capes. Analog distorts, a wavering image that grows and grows and grows as it tramples forward, now a massive creature at least twenty feet tall and shaped like an elephant with far too many legs, trunks and tusks. She weathers attacks from dozens of sources, crushing bodies with every stilted step, letting out a horrible keening noise turning the turbulent water into a opaque, misting pool.

I can't help but stare at the chaos, a lone point of stillness outside the melee.

This is what it looks like when capes cut loose. Wholesale slaughter and destruction, faster and more violent than almost anything I've ever seen. I caught glimpses of it against Lung, and more when we attacked Bakuda, but those were so much smaller in scale.

My moment of distraction costs me.

A flash of light, then _pain_ as something strikes the side of my face and sends me reeling back. More flashes of light, and I bring up shields of bone thick enough that I have to brace them against the ground or overbalance. The hits feel odd, pure pressure with none of the slight tearing I've come to associate with physical weapons.

"One's down!" a deep, rumbling voice shouts. "Get her!"

 _Enough_.

I push out more bone, condensing, honing, _hiding_ , until I'm surrounded by a shell of stacked blades, whisper-sharp and almost too heavy to move. I grow bone down into the cracks in the street, in between the rushing legs of the monsters, anchoring myself in place as fire, claw, and more flashes of light rain down upon me.

Then I _spin_.

Scythes of bone fly out, tearing through flesh and armor alike with equal ease. Needles follow behind, _searching for flesh and expanding into trees moments after they sink in, rendering the grotesque unrecognizable_. Hooks spring from beneath the water, grabbing whoever's left and pulling them down, _holding close and never letting go until the bubbles stop coming_.

I shatter my connection to the layer of bone that's now covering the street below the waves and surface to look around.

Erinye's gone, and what monsters remain are corpses or offal. Hookwolf steps over them towards me, his face of blades unreadable.

"You okay, Rosie?" he asks, voice gruff and tinged with iron.

"Never better," I respond stiffly, pushing through the sudden adrenaline crash and weak knees with a combination of pride and bone. Hookwolf nods his head once, his skepticism clear.

"You, uh, got something here," he says, one claw coming up to point to his face. I reach up on the same side and feel a flaw in my mask, a crack, and just like that the left side of my face is on fire, one big ache that makes me want to curl up with something cold pressed against it until it doesn't hurt as much.

"Never. Better," I say, fixing my mask and walking back towards the group. "Where to next?"

* * *

The third time we find Erinye, we almost win.

A teakettle-like noise goes off and I promptly encase myself and Asher in a shell of bone, the two of us separated by maybe a centimeter. Shortly thereafter the shell catches on fire, a dull agony compared to what my face feels like. Once the burning stops, I explode the shell off of me.

"Too close!" I shout to Morpheus. "Next time give us more warning." He shrugs once, a level of nonchalance in his stance that tells me he'd be rolling his eyes right now if he had any.

"Aww, but it was so pretty!" Asher chirps, already over her near-death experience and looking across the field to see the effect. "Boom!" she shouts, clapping her hand together. "Just like a firework!"

She's not wrong. I'm not sure _what_ Morpheus did, but it blew a chunk the size of a sedan out of Erinye, odd-colored fire still licking over her form. She's growing back, but I'd like to think she's growing back more slowly than she was at the beginning of the fight. On a whim, I reach out and _twist_ everything in sight, aiming for nothing in particular, and get rewarded with a cry of pain. Monster or no, Erinye still seems to have bones.

In the middle of one of Brockton Bay's few public squares is a pit. It didn't used to be there, but when you have dozens of offensive powers active for multiple minutes on end, there's going to be a crater. Inside of it is Erinye, a group of Shakers with powers either too slow or too weak to be effective against Leviathan hemming her in, a boar-circle of parahumans standing strong against the monster. The few of us who can actually go toe-toe with her are caught in the middle, catching the clones that try to make a break for it as Blasters shell her from distant rooftops, their respective emissions more distinct than their silhouettes.

Another cry echoes across the battlefield as Cineral ignites again, dim light turning bright as noon as fire hot enough to vaporize steel turns liquid to mist and flesh to ash. I wince at the sound of screaming even as I keep reaching for more things to _twist_.

"Feels kinda wrong," Hookwolf mutters from where he's laying on the ground beside me, head on his paws. "Ain't that sporting."

"Shut the fuck up, that bitch could kill us all if we gave her half a chance," Snow says, tossing a blast of his particular brand of physics-violation into the pit. "When they're scary enough, shooting a fucker in their sleep with an artillery piece is self-defense." He's standing in front of Analog, a slim, short woman dressed in a black bodysuit and a mask shaped like a vintage TV, complete with antenna. It flickers to life, showing a handsome man in a bed.

" _The show must go wrong. Everything always goes wrong._ "

"Fuckin' don't say that," Snow mutters, one hand going up to squeeze Analog's shoulder. "Shit's almost over," he adds quietly. "Just gotta make it through this. Figure out a way to beat the healing. You have any ideas about how to make this go faster?" he shouts, turning to Morpheus.

The cape takes another drag on his cigarette, looking thoughtfully at the sky, then holds his hand up in front of him. A sphere of water forms, then evaporates, forming a mushroom cloud.

"No," Grounder interrupts, shaking their head. They're standing next to the bickering black and white capes, still as a corpse. "If there was a Tinker nuke that could be deployed safely in a city, Dragon would've brought one in by now. Besides, anything you could fire off probably isn't much more dangerous than what's out there," they add, motioning to the bonfire, which has only grown brighter as the Blasters finally overwhelm the last of Erinye's defensive Shakers. The screams redouble.

"Still feels wrong," Hookwolf repeats, sullen but accepting. I'm inclined to agree with him. I don't think I'd do anything differently, but hearing her cries from all the way over here...

It's unsettling.

We stare at the pit for a little while longer, watching as the mountain of flesh slowly shrinks from something larger than an Endbringer to house size to truck size to smaller.

This isn't a fight. Just an execution.

Eventually, I can't stomach the sight anymore and turn away, looking for something, anything to take my mind off-

"Endbringer!" someone shouts.

I whip my head back towards the pit.

Leviathan looks _bad_. Chunks of flesh are missing and gouges mark his body, irregular and numerous. One arm looks nearly severed, ichor oozing from every wound. It's almost impossible to connect him to the flawless monster that rampaged freely through ranks of capes earlier in the night.

What _happened_ to him?

The damage doesn't seem to be hindering him too much, though. Already capes are falling to him, their area denial flickering. A black blur, a star, and a green specter hover around Leviathan, tearing at him, trying to knock the monster back, but they can't seem to hurt it _enough_. More capes, less obvious but still apparent, throw themselves at the monster, teleporting or flying or just throwing themselves into the fight as orders, indistinct and panicked, echo out.

"What do I do?" Shrike asks, quiet enough that I think she doesn't mean for anyone to hear it, arms splitting open slightly, eyes locked onto the mess. "I can't hurt hurt him but people are dying and maybe I can drag someone out-"

Static briefly flickers for a moment as Analog's face lights up, drawing the attention of everyone of the roof. It's a cartoon this time, a young boy and a young girl on top of the building in an urban setting.

"Let's run away somewhere," the boy says, determined and angry.

"Where would we go?" the girl asks, hesitant.

"Anywhere. Just the farther the better," he answers, bitter as battery acid.

"Fuckin' right," Snow says quietly, shaking his head and backing away from the edge of the building. Then he turns to me. "Rose, you mind giving us a ride? Annie doesn't like tryin' on this many different powers at once."

I look at the two capes that want to flee, then at the battle. Every second I waste is another second where someone could be hurt, crippled, killed. Every second is a second I'm not evacuating someone, not getting people who asked for my help away from danger.

I'm paralyzed with indecision.

"Fuck, that ain't good," Hookwolf says, and I follow his gaze to the fight. "Levi just punched the big ol' ice cape into Erinye." I think I see a flash of blue in the middle of the mass of regenerating flesh, but it could just be a trick of the light.

"Rime!" Shrike shouts, arms splitting into savage-looking chainsaw/tendril hybrids even as her legs unfold to gain an extra knee, circular saw blades sliding out of her feet. She tenses her legs, then pushes off, leaping twenty feet up and I-don't-know how far forward, coming down in a splash of water as she transitions to running with barely a pause.

"Fuckit," Snow mutters before moving to stand in front of Analog, both hands on her shoulders. "Listen, we gotta go. Try just grabbing a few people okay? Just the ones around us," he murmurs. "Do you think you can do that?" he asks, voice soft and caring.

Analog shakes her head and the screen flickers on again. A girl, beautiful, in a modest cottage with an older woman, both dressed in faux-renaissance clothing.

"I must be overtired," the girl says. "The excitement and all."

"Rest then," the older woman replies. "Terrible things can happen when you're overtired."

"Okay," he says, giving her a hug before spinning around and glaring at me, the slight static effect leaking from his eyes betraying just how livid he is. "Listen, I'm not asking you to carry our asses back to Nevada. Just get us the fuck away-"

"Incoming!" Grounder shouts, spreading their arms wide as they step in front of the two black and white capes. I push out bone and feel it turn to ash hotter and faster than it did from Morpheus's attack. I push out more, trying to shift myself away from the blast before the roof melts out from under me.

A short storm of pain later and the fire stops. I drop the armor, taking in the aftermath. A blue field is slowly receding into Grounder, lighting shooting from their armor to the roof, melting rocks where it strikes. Morpheus and Titania stare at the mess of fighting capes, unharmed, but the gravel around them has melted into a single, glowing mass. Hookwolf and Bloody Mary are shaking it off, Hook still cherry-red and Mary sloughing off the charcoal of her six limbs and compound eyes, stepping out of the mess naked and terrified.

"Holy shit," she whispers. "What was that?"

"That bitch," Hookwolf answers, and I can hear the pain in his voice. "Fuckin' burned me. Gonna die." With that he jumps off the edge of the roof, splashing down in a torrent of steam and shattering metal. "Get down here!" he shouts, plowing through the water and leaving shards of metal in his wake. Titania goes after him, floating through the rain, while Morpheus flies off in a burst of compressed air. Asher pouts, stomping her foot and cocking her head at me.

"Come on, if we don't hurry they'll finish up without us!" she pouts, pointing at the brawl. Massive conflagrations flaring from the pit make the shadows dance oddly across her face, giving her an ageless appearance that unnerves me. "I don't think I'll be able to get over there fast enough on my own!"

I look back to Snow and Analog, the first muttering quiet words as the second keeps shaking her head, screen flickering on and off too fast to understand, while Mary shivers in the rain and rubs her bare arms.

"I'll take them," Grounder says, monotone snapping me out of my fugue. I look up at the tower of metal, expressionless as ever, a single blue slit for vision offering no information about the mind behind the mask. "Risk of friendly fire is too great," they add, shrugging. "If you want to fight, go ahead."

I look out over the battlefield, and already I can see the fight turning. Erinye has regenerated, spitting out capes that look incomplete, missing limbs, missing skin, unhealthy and disgusting. They throw out the full wrath of nature, spinning up spindles of lighting, wreathes of flame, most only lasting long enough to use their ability once. It's working though, and I see our side giving ground, slowly retreating from the overwhelming firepower.

Maybe I could help.

Then I remember my promise to Amy. I remember Dad.

"No," I say, and a dream melts in my chest. "I can't do anything that would matter here." I turn my back on the war and walk over to Mary, extending a hand.

"Let's run."


	46. Scavenge Interlude

"Dispatch sent you. Just you," I say flatly.

"Yup," the newbie replies, the entirely-too-happy-smile that's got to be plastered across his face hidden by a smooth, glowing green mask, featureless save for a pair of eyeholes currently directed at the city hall. "What's the problem?"

"It's a hostage situation," I say, resisting the urge to start cursing up a storm. Instead I settle for pinching the bridge of my nose, focusing on the pressure in an attempt to curb the inevitable migraine. "Multiple normal humans watching every entrance, all armed with automatic weapons and body armor stolen straight out of our armory." Heads are gonna roll for that particular fuck-up. Normally we can rely on out-gunning the 'gangers. "That, and there's some crazy guy with future tech. No joke, he took out a pistol and blew up a cruiser. Bang. Like that." I feel my jaw clench as I remember the sound the freaky gun made, halfway between a squelch and a crack of thunder, as I remember seeing Alexis and Jared die to shit straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon.

Except this time, the villain of the week is going to be leaving in a body bag.

"This town shall be re-named Celebutopia, and we _will_ be declared a sovereign nation, free from the tyranny of the US government!" a mechanized voice shouts out, staticky and monotone, and I grit my teeth. The crazy bastard set up inside city hall hours ago, and procedure for dealing with fucking _supervillains_ is to wait for backup, and lots of it. Never mind that good people could be getting their heads cut open in there while we sit on our asses. Never mind that if we were allowed to shoot the freaks on sight shit like this wouldn't happen. Nope, let the man-children in tights walk onto the scene and try to do our job for us, and when shit goes south because a civilian is trying to handle _police_ procedures we take the blame for not being accommodating enough.

God I hate capes.

"So, what can you do?" I ask, forcing myself to be polite. Pissing off the guy with an invisible gun isn't going to help anyone, least of all the hostages.

"Anything," he says simply, waving his hand at the building. "I just fused the firing pins of their weapons to the mechanism, so those shouldn't be a problem." Shit, really? If he's not lying, then-

Another wave. "The men with guns are asleep," the cape says. "A few of them are going to wake up with bruises, but I don't think that's going to be a problem. I also told the hostages to stay put and wait for rescue. Don't want any accidents," he adds, nodding once at me. "What else do you need?"

The radio in my cruiser squawks. "This is sniper one, hostiles are down, repeat, hostiles are down. No shots fired here. Over."

"Sniper two, no shots fired. Over."

I look at the radio for a second, then to the glowing green man.

"You're fucking serious," I whisper, an empty feeling in my stomach. Just like that, a situation where an elite SWAT team would be lucky to lose only one in ten hostages, this guy just waved his hands and poof.

No more situation.

"I'm just trying to help," the cape says. "You said the other guy had technology?"

"Yeah," I say, still shell-shocked. "If you could help us get it off him, that'd be good. Procedure is to have another science-guy deal with it, but if you could-"

"I can," he says, and again there's that _joy_ in his voice. "I'll help you separate it from the more mundane stuff they might've brought along and get it to people who can deal with it more safely than I can. And we're calling them Tinkers, by the way." It's like there really isn't anything he'd rather be doing. I shake my head and snag the radio before pausing.

"What's your name?" I ask. "They just told me to look for the guy in the green cape, which describes, like, a third of the superheroes running around." Said guy laughs twice, throwing his head back and letting the sound echo out across the fields, and I see a few other cops look towards him, a mixture of disbelief and awe on their faces.

"Probably wanted to let me introduce myself," I hear him mutter before he sticks his hand out towards me. "My name is-"

* * *

"Eidolon!" Alexandria shouts. "Wave!"

"On it!" I shout, cursing at the beast's water echo again as it throws off my shot just the tiniest bit, making my packet of compressed plasma do little more than create even more vapor, adding to the fog drifting around the battlefield. A year ago I wouldn't've missed that. A year ago I'd have known the ins and outs of this energy-throwing power inside of two minutes and figured out a way to turn it into a Shaker effect as well. I can still see the possibilities, the potential lines this power could take, but I'm not going to figure them out fast enough to matter.

Instead I throw it aside, mourning the loss of a weapon that could hurt Leviathan, even if only on a surface level. I reach for an actual Shaker power, something with range that can affect water. Any number of potential abilities come to mind, but I rein in my thoughts and wait for the feeling. Hanging onto hopes and trying to anticipate what power I'll get only makes figuring out the fine details harder, and it costs precious seconds once the power does settle in. Better to wait for more information, keep my expectations low, and make due with what comes.

Sure enough, I feel it, a tingling awareness of conflicting forces, of chaos magnified to cacophonous levels. With it comes awareness of motion, buildings standing out as places of relative quiet and the writhing tides as a furious orchestra. It's beautiful, but I don't have the time to appreciate the supernaturally-abstract image it paints.

Besides, it doesn't match up to looking at snow in ultraviolet.

I push out, nudging each bit of motion in a slightly different direction, subtly changing each vector, tricking the eddies and tides within the wave into fighting one another. It's not fast though, and I can feel how small the effect really is, a metaphorical bucket of water against an inferno. In Busan, I was able to tear the water away from Leviathan, to leave the monster high and dry among the other capes and let them hammer him unhindered. Now I have to settle for mitigating the effects of his existence and hope for the best.

I should be the best.

Instead I'm forced to wait as knowledge comes to me agonizingly slowly, the subtle improvements to my use of the force-manipulation power letting me slow the wave down a little more every moment and make the oncoming tragedy just a little more tolerable.

I'm fighting to influence the degree of our loss, not for a chance at victory.

It feels _wrong_.

* * *

"You alright?" I ask, looking carefully away from David as I go in for another bite of salad.

"I'm good, Ced," he says tersely, spoon clinking angrily against his bowl of mac'n'cheese. I nod noncommittally and spear a few more leaves.

The days just after a seizure are always rough. Doesn't matter if it's with a patient who's more or less living a normal life and just needs a check-up every once in a while or someone with a constant caretaker. It's always just after the shakes hit that people feel the most vulnerable, the most not-normal, whatever the hell that means to them. Reactions can be anything from manic episodes of hyperproductivity to make up for the lost time to depressive fugues that call for a twenty-four hour suicide watch. David tends to simmer in anger, a quiet heat that he tries very, very hard to keep contained. For the most part, he's successful.

We finish dinner and I let him clear the dishes away. Agency, any agency, helps him calm down, even if it's something as small as putting a kitchen in order. He comes back with a plate of cookies less than fifteen minutes later. The two of us work through the baked goods slowly, quietly chewing on the oatmeal raisin treats, avoiding eye contact and not saying a word.

When I took over from Shelly as David's primary caretaker, I asked him how we should handle the aftermaths. Whether he wanted to dance around the subject or for me to be blunt. It was a long afternoon, and we worked our way through more beers than I can remember. It more or less boiled down to two things, though.

One, I don't do anything for him that he can't do for himself. That means no taking out the trash, no cooking, no bathroom intrusions unless he's literally having a seizure. That means that I have to carefully balance how much space I take up in the house, make sure that my mess and his mess doesn't overlap, expand my palate to adapt to his tastes, and find other, subtler ways to ensure his safety.

Two is that we don't talk about the seizures when there isn't a pressing need to. He's self-aware enough to know that he's not good company after a one, but he's also prone to chain seizures. That means I have to be nearby and ready for the worst right when he's trying to pull himself together, trying to make himself presentable and recover whatever dignity he manages to scrape together between episodes. I'd like to think we've both grown a little more used to this odd sort of intimacy, but I'm also not kidding myself.

My very presence makes him want to vomit.

"Heading out," I say, standing up and walking to the entrance. David's danger period has passed, and I have somewhere to be.

"Plans for the night?" David asks, rolling beside me down the short hallway to the door. I shrug.

"I'm going to see a movie," I answer, pulling on my jacket. "The temp worker should be here in just a few minutes." I don't tell him about Alex, or about how I hope the night will go. David's made no indication that he's interested in dating yet, but he doesn't need another constant reminder of how different our lives are.

"Could you pick up some eggs while you're out?" David asks. I nod calmly despite the brief flutter of hope in my heart. Our normal procedure for picking up groceries is a list on the fridge which I get without comment on Saturdays when he's out at the hospital. Asking is admitting that he needs help and a step in the right direction, even if it's a small one.

"I can do that," I say, just as even and calm as I was at the table. The doorbell rings and I let David open it.

A dark skinned woman stands at the door, dressed in slacks and a button up with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Behind and to the left of her is a younger girl, a fedora perched jauntily on top of her head and an oddly detached look in her eyes.

"Hello, Cedric," the dark skinned woman says, nodding once. "I'm here to take over for the night." I wince internally at the phrasing.

"Your name?" I ask, stepping to side and making room for the two of them to come into the apartment. David rolls back, a slightly hostile expression on his face.

"Call me Doctor Mother," she says.

* * *

"Retreat!" Legend shouts, a stream of searing white light springing from his hand.

And just like that, the line shatters. Odokuro pulps the head of one last clone then spins on her heel and sprints away with the great bounding leaps of people with super strength and no additional Mover power. Narwhal floats back on a spinning force field, leaving torn and broken bodies hanging off of gem-like constructs. Fluke starts steadily teleporting back, intercepting power-generated projectiles, hurled debris, and water alike.

"What do you mean, retreat?" I hiss back through aerokinesis as I _wrench_ at a patch of empty air and pull a mass of hissing fangs made of poison and glass into being. I hurl it at the ground, where it promptly starts extending out tendrils of writhing blades at the clones, melting them from the inside out where it manages to come in contact with them and expanding exponentially where the tendrils are severed. "We can keep going!" A Master power I haven't seen before, straightforward and with a high upper limit. More than sufficient to slaughter Erinye's minions, but nowhere near strong enough to fight Leviathan. Not intense enough to wipe out Erinye in one go either.

If I just had more _time_.

"I've run the numbers," Alexandria whispers, impossible to hear without a power over the crunch of bone and crash of waves. "With the parahumans available and the growth rate of Erinye, the odds of containing this successfully are too low to justify risking any more capes. We're cutting our losses and quarantining the area until the Thinktank can come up with a better solution."

"The situation isn't going to get better!" I reply, crashing into melee beside my minion and punching _through_ twisted rib cages. "You can't honestly think that this monster won't find a way out of this? Out of here? That whatever solution we apply to solving this won't also leave the city a smoking crater!?"

" _Rime clone coming in_ ," my bracelet chimes.

"The decision is made," Alexandria says firmly, flying up and out of the melee. "We lost."

My minion lashes out, scything through the ranks of the clones before it encounters a line of Brutes. I grit my teeth and let it go, searching for something to hurt them, to hurt _something_. I get it, a tingle beneath my skin that frantically scrapes up and out.

I let it.

My perception _alters_ as I dissolve into a whirling body of countless force fields. It comes with flight, so I let the aerokinesis go, along with the Brute rating. Normally, I hang onto powers that give me flight, that make me nearly invulnerable. It's too risky to gamble on a replacement.

This time I'm too _angry_ to care.

I throw myself into the group of Brutes that were able to endure the glass hydra and crash through one, leaving behind nothing more than bloody mist. Another tries to grapple me and falls to pieces, the bits that remain quickly sinking under the water. I _feel_ a cape raise their arm at me courtesy of some form of danger sense and fly erratically through the rest of the Brutes, preventing them from getting a clear shot as I reach for another power, something with range and accuracy.

This. This I can do. I can break, destroy, and kill anyone at this level with impunity. The number of parahumans on the planet that pose a meaningful threat to me can be counted on one hand, and even then perhaps three actually have a reliable method of hurting me. Against other capes I am _matchless_.

Unfortunately, that doesn't matter most of the time.

I carve my way to the Rime clone. She's shorter than the original, with thicker limbs and a blockier jaw. She waves her arms and a trio of small rocks appear, then fly towards me. My third power manifests and the shards of rock disappear in a burst of grey sparks. The clone frowns, revealing a flat block of enamel in her mouth instead of individual teeth, and waves her arms again. This time the projectiles crash into the water, erupting into a series of stone spikes, expanding rapidly towards me in a line of stabbing points.

I fly through them, turning the rock to dust and the rain into water vapor, then bisect the clone with an outstretched arm. With that major threat taken care of, I fly up and cast my gaze around, searching for Alexandria.

It doesn't take long. She's brawling beside Chevalier, intercepting the more dangerous ranged attacks while he cuts through scores of clones with every swing of his cannonblade. A brief fly-around later and the immediate area is clear of enemies, at least for the moment.

"I'll play rearguard," I say, dropping out of the Breaker form and forcing myself to speak to Alexandria politely as the two of us float above the water. Chevalier turns away, tactfully not acknowledging the palpable tension in the air. "Anyone with high mobility and durability is welcome to join me, but there does need to be a holding action. Otherwise we'll just be cut down from behind."

Alexandria looks at me for a moment and I know she's analyzing my body language to figure out my true motives. I don't bother to hide them. I want a longer fight, one where I have a chance to test out some of the more destructive powers without the fear of accidentally killing someone. One where I have to reach for a win, delve deep within myself, and finally figure out just what is holding me back.

"Engage freely," she says sternly, floating up and away. "I'll relay the message." She's mad. I know enough about her to know _that_. I nod anyway and re-enter the blade state, discarding the projectile-nullifying power and reaching for an area power, something to bring ruin with.

If I can find my second wind, it will all be worth it.

* * *

"Are you alright?" I ask David.

The man looks up, his hood down and mask off. "Yeah, why?" he asks, genuine surprise in his voice. I sigh internally. Managing parahumans is difficult at the best of times. Managing powerful ones, even ones that you're generally on good terms with, is even harder. Throw in a martyr complex for good measure and you have a recipe for a generally good person who is a pain to work with.

"I don't know, you just seem kind of... off, today," I explain, suppressing a twitch in my hand. Ever since I got my powers I've developed ticks. Nothing maleficent, but an urge to be active, to fill my free time with work no matter how much I know that it will be counter-productive. I float a few inches off the ground and jerk my head at the open sky above us. "Fly to clear our heads before the press conference?"

"Absolutely," he says, smiling wide and glowing as a power manifests. I look at the sky and flex my ring finger, engaging the anti-gravity and artificial-gravity engines, folding reality in such a way that creates the _illusion_ of movement, insofar as all of reality is an illusion. I make a few more subtle motions, increasing and decreasing speed to match David's as he grows used to his power. As we accelerate I give him a quick scan. The version of flight he has this time works by manipulating small forces, less flight and more telekinetically buoying himself. Less control and more sensation than what I have. Designs spring to mind, wands that can exert tremendous force over a distance of half a mile, that can toss around cars like tennis balls.

I sigh and brush the idea aside. A thought for later. Right now, David needs help.

"We're moving fast enough that no one can hear us without powers, and I'm scanning for parahuman eavesdropping," I say, using the Omnicom to send the sound directly to David's ear. "My anti-Stranger tech is up and running, and if anyone can fool that we're boned anyway. What's worrying you?" Overkill, all of it, but if it's what it takes to get David to open up it's worth it.

Despite all the privacy, it still takes a minute for David to get comfortable. I'm almost certain he's reaching for sensory and precognition powers, verifying my assessment while also peering into the future to look at how the conversation could go. When he first told me he did this, it pissed me off to no end. Friends don't mind-read other friends, and future-sight does count as mind-reading. After talking to more than three serious Thinkers, including Rebbecca, I've learned that using one's powers for things like this is too common to hold a grudge for.

And given the kit I'm working with, I should probably reassess what I use on other people outside of combat more often.

"I could be doing more," David says, breaking me out of my thoughts. I snort.

"How?" I ask. "You don't sleep almost at all, can teleport at will, and whenever you run out of problems to solve you pick up a Thinker power to find more." Logistically, what he does is impossible even for major governments. He's like a branch of the US military, another Red Cross, and Argos scaled up to the size of a country all in one. I'm probably the closest thing he has to a peer, and I couldn't do half of what he does without six months of prep time and more coffee than anyone should be able to safely drink.

"Not like that," he says quietly, and this time I hear something odd in his voice. "I think I'm screwing up."

I ponder the thought. David takes it as an invitation to continue.

"That fight last week? The one against the cartel that was operating just inside the Texan border? I could've ended it faster. Reached for some sort of mass-Master power, made them all perfectly docile for a few hours, then let the police sort it out. I didn't though. Instead I got lethargic gaze. It worked, but it wasn't as fast." He pauses, and for a moment all I can hear is the whistling wind. "I didn't get what I wanted. I got a substitute that was good enough. What if next time it isn't? What if someone gets hurt?"

I mull it over for a minute.

Then I float over next to David and punch him in the arm. Hard.

"Ow! The hell was that for?" he asks indignantly. I grin behind my helmet, shaking my head.

"For being an idiot," I answer. "Oh, look at me! I'm Eidolon, the most powerful cape on the planet! I didn't win as hard as possible, woe is me," I say in a high-pitched, whiny voice. "That's what you sound like," I say, dropping back to normal, straight-faced as I can behind my helmet. "Poor baby Eidolon complaining about not being more overpowered." I shake my head theatrically. "Looks like we'll have to rely on someone else to save the human race. I think I'd look good in green, what about you?" I ask, turning back to Eidolon. He's staring at me, unusually still, and I don't need enhanced vision to picture the gobsmacked look on his face. I stare him dead in the eye. "Failing that, I'm sure we can find another beacon of hope. I hear there's a girl in New York running around beating up criminals while dressed up as a mouse and making puns. I'm sure she's got her head far enough out of her ass to manage it."

For a second we keep flying, maybe the most powerful Tinker in the world flying next to a man who could turn him to ash with a thought.

Then David laughs loud enough that the Omnicom automatically lowers the volume, speed dropping as he loses focus on his power. I crack a smile and laugh with him, easing my finger off of the warp flight. I'm ninety-nine percent sure I'll never need it, but better safe than sorry.

God knows I've had to run away from sticky situations before.

"You suck, you know that?" he says, shaking his head. "But the good kind of suck."

"I'm only the good kind of anything," I joke. "Ready to face the cameras?" I ask, tabbing through my HUD to slow my flight to subsonic speeds. No sense in destroying reporter ears, no matter how funny it might be.

"More ready than before," he says, resolve once more firm as we close in on the interview site. David doesn't like going on camera, but he's better at it than he thinks. Honesty goes a long way, even if it occasionally leads to accidentally sparking a religious revival when he mentions going to church regularly.

The stage is an open-air, elevated platform, set at head-height for most of the attendees. The crowd of reporters is large, but not the writhing mass that it was a year ago. Rebecca claims that she hasn't made a significant dent in normalizing powers, but given that I'm no longer setting fashion trends I'd have to say she's underestimating herself.

"Hello!" I call out, switching the Omnicom to public address mode. Everyone for hundreds of feet in every direction will hear me at a conversational volume, perfectly clearly and without getting interrupted by everyone else. One of the many reasons I'm our primary public agent. "Hero and Eidolon here, ready to talk!"

* * *

Me. Alone against the horde.

And I'm losing.

Everyone else has fled the field, even Legend and Alexandria. I can cut loose, throw around projectiles made of neutron stars, wreak destruction that even Rebecca couldn't weather, use powers that would cause any sane individual to flee my presence in terror.

And it's not enough.

I pull at the hearts of a nearby clump of clones with an unlimited telekinesis that I didn't know I could reach and watch them fall, then dissolve into flower petals and flash across the battlefield away from a construct bull the size of a bus. I tank a lamp post to the back of my head, unmoved despite the incredible force, and turn the twisted cape's brain to mush with a wave of my hand. She falls, warped features spasming as what remains of her central nervous system misfires.

Erinye is hidden, constantly moving, constantly fleeing, and somehow the rate at which she produces clones has increased. Earlier in the battle they fled from me, stayed in isolated cells, and tried to die as slowly as possible. Now they charge heedless of casualties, and no matter how many I kill there's always an untapped stream of monsters waiting around the corner.

This isn't working. I need to change priorities.

Another warp of petals and I'm standing on top of a building, dropping the telekinesis for another power, something exotic that might work on Leviathan's deeper layers. He's almost 'defeated' anyway, defeated as he's going to get, but this way maybe I can feel like I'm making progress. Space around me unfolds, sharpens, and clarifies, bringing with it an awareness I've come to associate with esoteric energy emissions. I try hurling it at a patch of water. It distorts, sections dissolving into fractals, growing for almost a full second before collapsing back into a puddle. The wall behind it that was caught in the blast simply becomes dust.

It will do.

As I warp across the city looking for the tell-tale signs of Leviathan's slaughter, I think back to a time where I could choose, where I didn't have to settle for whatever my agent thought was enough. If I wanted to annihilate, I could create black holes. If I wanted to fly, it wouldn't be anything less than supersonic. If I wanted to endure, inviolability would be the floor of potential powers I would receive.

Now I have to think, to manipulate, to cheat my way to my old baseline level of offense. Destruction comes slower and less intensely, forcing me into longer engagements. Movement is either far more limited or a matter of applying Shaker effects effectively, not of simply _willing_ myself into the air. My ability to survive is conditional, demanding that I battle from oblique angles lest I become vulnerable. None of that even touches the fact that the powers themselves are less potent than they were before, worse across the board.

I gnash my teeth as Leviathan comes into view. Weaker when I need to be stronger, slower when I need to be faster, and more vulnerable when I need to stand tall. What sort of hero becomes increasingly incapable as the pressure mounts? As the conflict-

I pause, hand lifted towards the Endbringer.

Conflict.

I warp across the ruined city, only a few blocks away from Leviathan. The agents feed on conflict. The drive is less pronounced in Cauldron capes and subtle if there at all, but powers want to be used.

Leviathan turns towards me, eyes glowing and tail thrashing, heavily damaged and no less dangerous for it. I fire the fractal power once at him, then push it away, the awareness going with it. The Endbringer, now just a grey-green outline through all the rain, snakes under it and sprints forward, thirty-five feet and several tons of killing machine charging right at me. I push away the solidness that let me endure previous barrages from the monster.

If my agent wants a fight, I'll give it one.

I stare at the approaching monster, costume growing heavy with rain as I stand there, vulnerable, barely able to see through the downpour. I feel an itching at my eyes and push it away.

No.

The outline grows bigger, clearer, closer, the glowing green eyes steadily becoming more defined through the veil of rain. A pull at the back of my brain. I push it away, along with the blossom Mover power.

No.

I can make out limbs now. Leviathan isn't slowing down. I resist the urge to run, waiting, heart now in my throat, and grit my teeth, the pounding of the rain drowning out the sound of his steps. Not yet (reject the power at my fingers) not yet (reject the power between my shoulder blades) not yet (reject the one prickling over my skin) not yet (reject the tickle in my throat) _he's right there_ -

I grab the flare in the ball of my foot and step sideways, slipping through the world in a perfectly indescribable way as I curse myself.

"Coward," I mutter, staring at where I came from, pulling in more powers now that it doesn't matter. The air in front of my face warps, and through the distortion I can see the monster twisting his head from side to side, searching for his now-absent prey. "You just had to run." The words taste like ash in my mouth even as I twist more, reaching for tiny particles in the air and loosing them in long arcs, pulling in another power that wraps around my bones, feeling it slowly spread outwards from them. "You had an idea and you chickened out." Leviathan dodges the blasts easily, slipping around a corner and out of my sight. I prepare to step again, but pause.

What's the point?

Leviathan's won.

This city is gone, shattered by hours of continuous combat. I wasn't able to fight the Endbringers on my own when I was at the peak of my abilities, never mind now. Leviathan has killed dozens of capes, crippled hundreds more, and wiped a city off the map in every way that matters.

This fight is over.

I feel a _weight_ settle on my shoulders, cold in a way that has nothing to do with the rain, and when I step through space, it's only to the next rooftop. I step again. Another rooftop. I keep stepping, moving towards the edge of the city.

Stupid, to risk myself, risk the one weapon that _might_ work against Scion, and for what? One shitty New England town. The only thing here with significant value was Doctor Mother's experiment with cape feudalism, and that collapsed the instant the Endbringer arrived.

It's an empty city, worthless as soon as the first wave landed.

I stop on the corner of a building and look out at devastation. I let the twisting power go and look, vision shifting in a way that makes everything appear only a few feet away, omnidirectional for at least a hundred feet. Shattered windows and flooded rooms, scattered detritus and floating debris, the remains of everyday life, indistinguishable from any other city attacked by Leviathan. A scene I've seen countless times, frequently better and frequently worse. More textured than Behemoth, who only leaves behind ash and melted structures. More brutal than Simurgh, who's true wounds only appear months down the line.

When he first appeared in Oslo, they called him Jormungand. He was the World Serpent, the one that would herald the beginning of Ragnarok. In a way, he did. The Second showed the world that things would never get easier, that Behemoth was not some one-off event. Some take Leviathan to be proof that there is something out there, a being malicious and cruel, that wants nothing more than the death of the whole human race. They call that being God.

I stand there in the rain for a moment, muttering a prayer.

Then I look up, into the rain.

I don't believe them. Not even a little. I can understand why one could come to that conclusion, though. Where Behemoth left craters, people could rebuild. It would be hard, grueling work, but it could be done. New York is a testament to that, living proof that humans can overcome any adversity. All we need is something to build on.

On the other hand, if we don't hit Leviathan hard enough and fast enough we don't even get _that_.

"ARRRRRGH!"

The building below me shatters and I step away from it before I get caught in the rubble. The secondary use of the heavy body. Gravity manipulation. Slow to build up, expended all at once, and strong enough that I could use it to sink a city given enough time.

Useless.

I let it go and continue to step around the city, discarding powers as soon as they come. Here I am, the single most dangerous parahuman on the planet, and what can I do? Run. Stay alive. Stem the bleeding. Hope that when the apocalypse does come, I'm remotely dangerous _enough_.

I catch sight of a clone running through the streets and throw something new enough that I don't understand it at all, and watch as a gust of wind throws it into the side of a building hard enough to pulp it. Once, that could've been a storm of force fields. A lance of plasma. A sphere of unmaking fit to vanish uranium.

Now I push things to death.

I sigh.

We lost.

I lost.

But Erinye is still here.

I look towards the edge of the city, towards escape. Towards surrender. Then I look towards the city center, where I know the S-Class threat is.

Erinye is still here, and I might not be out of tricks yet.

I teleport, settling into a grid pattern, searching. One threat. No potential collateral damage. Nothing to save, no time pressure, no expectations. I search through powers, search for something big, strange, _deep_ in a way that I normally can't afford to wait for. My senses alter themselves half a dozen, a dozen, an uncountable number of times, ranging from familiar enough that I feel like I've had them all my life to so violently alien that I don't have the words to describe it to anyone without a doctorate in mathematics or theology.

I throw them away.

Every.

Last.

One.

I feel something hard and hot build up inside of me, something entirely unconnected to my power. Familiar, like an old wound, still aching. A combination of frustration, anger, and helplessness that puts me back in the chair. I get powers fit to lash out, to rage, to wreak havoc.

They go too.

Still unarmed save for the teleportation, I see Erinye in the distance. I keep rejecting the powers as I move closer, taking longer and longer steps, my understanding of the nature of the movement growing. When will this leave me? When will short range teleportation become another tool I don't have access to?

Clones notice me. I keep teleporting, throwing myself in odd directions, sudden shifts in momentum, weaving between lunging monsters and vicious projectiles. A precog of some sort hurls a shard of glass into the space I teleport to, which bounces off my chest piece. I resist the urge to seize a Brute power, a danger sense, something to save me from another attack. It would be familiar, comfortable, expected, and none of those things are working.

I need to stop being safe and start being dangerous.

Soon enough I'm only a few metaphorical steps away from Erinye. Her clones are still trying to trap me, to catch me, but their increasingly frantic efforts are no more successful than their first. The teleporting power is holding strong, and no matter how her misshapen body awkwardly gallops I remain in range.

Waiting.

"Why are you still here?" Erinye shouts, barely audible over the rain. She's clutching a sodden coat of some sort around herself, and she sounds miserable. "What could you possibly want from me? The city's gone, Leviathan's gone, Krouse is gone, everything is fucked!" The efforts of the clones redouble. I feel another knife impact me, this time somewhere in my side. The cloth-armor stops the blow though, and I remain silent.

"Just leave me alone," she says, barely audible.

Natural triggers tend to be balanced, to be reasonable, to be fair. A terrifying offense or an impenetrable defense, versatile or powerful, personal or external. Second triggers, the few that there are, can break the rules. The S-Class threats, the ones where something went horribly wrong with their agents, they can as well. Cauldron capes, both the Case 53's and those unafflicted, veer farther into the mismatch territory.

Normally, powers make a sort of sense. Perfect accuracy, without the power to capitalize on it. Absurd speed, without the ability to affect the world on the same level. Infinite possibility for an extraordinarily limited time. Like the agents don't want things to be too easy.

But not me.

I get to break the rules.

I focus.

Negation.

Focus.

Negation.

 _Focus_.

 **Negation**.

I feel a power come to me, oozing into my fingers, abstract and wrong in a way that I feel in my hindbrain, like glass on chalkboard or the sight of a maggot-infested corpse.

Perfect.

I step forward into a mass of clones, taking another power. The world decelerates, incoming attacks slowing to a crawl. I step forward through them all, angling my body just so to avoid blades, to avoid fireballs, to avoid lances of metal. I can feel the teleportation power drifting away. I dodge, slipping under a knife aimed at my eye that's moving towards me through the air like it's trapped in molasses. One more step and I'm beside Erinye. I reach out and touch her.

Then I let the ooze loose.

For a moment, there's only silence, rain slipping through the air at glacial speeds.

Then Erinye screams.

I step away as her entire body convulses, malformed jaws distending and half-formed paws lashing out at anything and everything, and I'm suddenly filled with a sense of nausea. Meat rots before my eyes, turning black and green, withering, receding but it's all I can do not to throw up, the feeling of being _far too full_ suffusing me. The torso on top of the mass of horror is gasping, decaying, clutching at her chest as flesh sloughs off of her to disintegrate into nothingness as more and more of her slivers away even as I feel like bursting, like spilling myself out into the world. What little doesn't dissolve collapses in on itself, revealing costumed bodies. Finally the feeling of filling stops, even if that doesn't relieve the pressure. I recognize Rime, a time-themed local hero, a villain wearing a mask made of glass shards and barbed wire and nothing else, dozens of capes, suddenly free, a small consolation to the pain I feel.

With one last scream, the last piece of Erinye disappears in a clap of thunder and an explosion of not-pressure I feel in my bones, in my head, and between my eyes, taking the pain with it. I grimace, one hand going to my head-

I don't feel my powers.

For a cold second I don't have any abilities. No step. No perception. No ooze.

 _What have I done?_

Then they come back and I almost laugh in relief even as the battle starts anew below me. I embrace the first three powers that come like old friends, like family. Knowledge flows into me, an onslaught of data, of understanding, and I smile, raising my hands.

"Sleep," I whisper.

Then I clap.

All but a handful of the clones fall down catatonic.

I feel eyes swivel to find me, allied and enemy alike. I float up slightly, smooth as pouring milk, a _firmness_ in my limbs that makes me feel like I could tear apart steel beams. I inhale, nostalgia sweeping through me as I think back through the years to a time when I didn't have to ration my abilities.

This power.

This power I know.

"I'm back," I whisper.

Then I charge into the fight.


	47. Rot 1

Getting away from Erinye was surprisingly easy. She didn't send any capes after us, or if she did they weren't fast enough to keep up. The sounds of the battle slowly fade with distance, first loud enough to spur one last surge of adrenaline, then muted enough that some caution works its way into my pillars, until only the loudest sounds carry all the way to us. My passengers seem to relax with me, at first straining against their harnesses, then bracing within them, then hanging limp within the near-cocoons of bone around them.

When a full minute goes by without an audible expression of powers, I feel something taut go loose in my shoulders.

I turn around a corner and come out onto a ruined park, the greenery torn and scattered and the play structures crushed against the ground, but it's the marvel in the distance that makes me pause. A twist in space, long and dense in a way that reminds me of a docking rope Dad showed me at the Docks, one big knot made of smaller fibers, except this one is a vision of a landscape so twisted that M.C. Escher would say that it's a little much. It stretches out into the distance well beyond the horizon.

"Hey, less gapin' and more gallopin'!" Snow says, wriggling inside his harness. "We ain't clear yet!"

I resist the urge to put a nub of bone somewhere unfortunate and return to the odd stilting that's become my go-to movement mode when I'm carrying passengers. Despite his foul tongue Snow has been a fairly tolerable passenger, and Analog has been silent save for the odd clip of TV. I don't know what's up with her, but Snow seems pretty touchy about it and I don't feel like kicking that particular hornet's nest.

"How far are we?" a voice says, tentatively hopeful. I gauge the remaining distance between us and the twist of space with a now-practiced eye.

"Not five minutes," I assure Bloody Mary. "We're almost there."

Soon enough we're at the entrance to the tunnel. It's guarded by one cape, a stocky woman in an unattractive jumpsuit decorated with crystals. She holds up her hand palm out and I slow to a halt just outside what I think is a safe distance.

"Names, last responsibility, and Master/Stranger passwords if you have them," she says harshly, the other hand coming up to point at us. I stay very, very still as I answer.

"White Rose, Snow, Analog, and Bloody Mary. We were hunting clones until Erinye got trapped. Then Leviathan showed up…" I trail off.

"Bloody Mary. Echo Mike One One Eight Seven," Bloody Mary shouts. The guard cape's hand goes to her ear and I can make out a pink bracelet on her wrist. After a moment she nods and motions at the tunnel.

"They're ready to receive you," she says. "Good to have you back." With that she promptly stops paying attention to us, switching her gaze back to the cityscape. I move past her, look into the tunnel and shake my head in wonder. I'm not alone.

"Fuckin' hell," Snow whispers. In front of us is the medical tent. As in, _right_ in front of us. I take three steps forward and suddenly I'm miles away from Brockton Bay. Vista is there, sitting in a folding chair surrounded by a squad of PRT troopers. She flashes me a quick smile before turning her attention back to the tunnel. I slowly walk past her, taking in the sight.

If she wasn't a Ward, she could make a fortune in transportation.

"Okay, we're outta danger. Let the fuck go," Snow says, slapping the bone around his chest twice. I do so, sending him sprawling to the ground with a series of squawks and curses. I smirk behind my mask as I set the other two capes down more gently. Analog promptly walks over to Snow and starts helping him up while Bloody Mary moves closer to me.

"Could you give me a mask?" she whispers quietly. I look her up and down, then kick myself. Of course the naked cape wants something to cover up her identity. I make a domino mask, then hesitate.

"Do you want some clothes?" I ask. I don't think I can do cloth, but blocks of bone would probably be better than nothing. Bloody Mary just shakes her head, plucking the mask from my fingers and turning towards the troopers.

"I need to see someone," she mutters as she walks away, practically wilting in the rain. I look towards Snow and Analog, but they're both already talking to a PRT agent. My eyes fall to a tent with a pictogram of two stick figures throwing a third into a pool, with red paint filling in the trough.

No prizes for guessing who that is.

Isidis turns around when I walk through the flaps, elbow deep in gore and still wearing the flower I gave her. It's dyed red now, bright and fresh, and I can see Dorian looking up from where he's crouched under a PRT trooper with an axe.

"Hey," I say quietly. How should I approach this? "I'm-"

"Gimme a minute here," Isidis interrupts. "I'm nearly done with this guy's stomach." True to her word, a man slowly pushes himself out of the pool, poking at his abdomen, which is remarkably muscled relative to the rest of his body. "You're welcome," Isidis adds, standing up and brushing some giblets off of herself as she steps out of the pool. "Now get dressed and get back out there."

As Isidis walks across the room, misgivings arise. Should I have stayed out longer? She certainly hasn't stopped working. Should I have moved closer first, met her half way? Were words even necessary, and was the correct course of action just to set up another wood chipper and start working on Dorian-

Isidis throws her arms around me and I stop.

"You're back," she whispers. I nod above her head and return the hug. Cautiously. Carefully.

"I'm back," I say.

* * *

Time passes slowly.

Sure we healed some people. That didn't actually take a lot of effort though, and I found myself craving intellectual stimulation less than ten minutes into the grind. The three of us tried singing, but that grew old fast without the semi-constant bickering over which song to pick. That, and our hearts weren't really in it.

Alabaster died.

He was abrasive, a pain to work with, and a literal Nazi. If, when, he got caught, he would've been Birdcage bound for sure, and I can't name a single person who would've shed a tear.

Alabaster also apparently pulled Dorian out of the way of a clone's suicide charge, one which took the life of three other capes. He played rearguard against the last wave of clones while everyone was retreating. By all accounts he went out on his own terms, fighting an unambiguous evil. The irony is sickening, in the worst way.

After the battle is over, the government is going to pay for a monument to honor the fallen. His name will be up there, along with all the other people who died during the attack. With a name like his, it'll be near the top of the list.

In between grinding up Dorian and bathroom breaks, I pondered what that might mean. Alabaster wasn't a nationally known cape, not like Kaiser, not like the Triumvirate. Most people who see his name on the monument aren't going to know about the people he's killed. They're not going to see his rap sheet. They won't know about what he believed, about what he did in the name of those beliefs.

All they'll see is his name, carved into stone, recognizing the last act of his life.

I don't know how to feel about that.

"No one's come in for a while. That's a good thing, right?" The question snaps me out of my musings and I turn to look at the source. Dorian is sitting on the edge of the Pit, gently kicking his feet in the pool of gore. Isidis is sitting alongside him, a hospital gown thrown carelessly over her shoulders and stained red at the bottom. She shrugs, adjusting the paper sleeve as it threatens to fall off.

"Eh. Good and bad. Good in that there aren't any wounded, bad in that it could just mean that the S-Class threat is getting better at dealing the final blow," Isidis says, casting a glance towards me. "How bad was it out there?" she asks. I lean back in my seat of bone, still connected to the wood chipper, and shake my head.

"I couldn't tell," I say. "Only one of the twelve people in my group disappeared, but I don't know what the casualty rates for the other groups were." Probably higher, given that they weren't selected for survivability. I shudder to think about what a few Starfishes could do to a group of unprepared Blasters.

"That's good, right?" When Isidis and I both look to Dorian, he shuffles his feet sheepishly. "I mean, Legend said that one in four people die in Leviathan attacks, right? One in twelve is a lot better than that." Isidis keeps looking at him, then shakes her head.

"One in four die," she says quietly, dropping her gaze to the pool of meat. "Casualty rate factors in the people who "just" get injured. That includes lacerations, concussions, broken bones, broken backs, missing limbs, etcetera." Her hands tense on the edge of the pool, knuckles going white. "Casualty rate is pretty close to ninety percent." I process that for a moment as Dorian pales. If people knew that getting injured was a virtual certainty at an Endbringer fight, participation would plummet. Hard. Most people can't afford to spend a few months laid up with a broken leg they can't explain, and I can't imagine that insurance companies would cover people willfully entering a danger zone.

I almost laugh. Reporting the _death toll_ makes charging the sentient, murderous natural disaster more attractive.

"So everyone gets hurt?" Dorian asks quietly. Isidis shrugs, motioning towards Dorian.

"People like you? The really hard to put down Brutes? They make counting it weird. Throw in half a dozen types of healing and people rarely leave an Endbringer fight with lasting damage. But if you remove the people who can shrug off anything short of an exotic power or heavy ordnance from the equation and just look at wounds received rather than the wounds people take home, then yeah, almost everyone gets injured. Back liners like me tend to manage alright, but the Endbringers aren't stupid. They'll set traps, take opportunities. We're safer, but only by degrees."

After that the conversation dies off, each of us lost in our own thoughts, more somber than ever. Amy seems resigned, if unhappy. Dorian is oddly still, his face slowly falling as grim reality sinks in. I look inwards.

How durable am I, really? I can tank bullets, or at least the ones that came out of the guns the ABB could find. I can fight capes, depending on how they attack me. Both of those are qualified statements though, and when I start thinking about my odds versus a group of well-trained soldiers with heavier guns, ones who know about my powers and have thought about how to counter them, I don't dismiss my death as a possibility.

Then I think about someone like Alexandria coming down to rip my head off and go even quieter.

The world is filled with monsters, and I'm nowhere near the scariest.

* * *

A PRT agent walks in, helmet off and an exhausted smile on his face. "It's over."

I wait for the rush of victory. For something like the happiness after I killed Bakuda, the grim satisfaction of taking out an ABB store house. Anything positive, anything light.

Instead what I feel is a tired relief. The end of a shift at the hospital. Making it through a day at school without wanting to go Carrie. It's not a celebratory feeling, just a cessation of stress.

"How, who, and where are the bodies?" Isidis asks, snapping off the questions rapidly. I berate myself for lapsing and shake myself awake. We're healing. The injured aren't going to magically stop existing once the fight is over.

"Levi fucked off near the end, Eidolon disintegrated the other S-Class threat, and there aren't any. Eidolon mass-healed everyone," the agent responds, counting off the answers on one hand while the other runs through his hair. "Brockton is fucked, but the city isn't sunk. They're running rescue on the civilians now." He jerks his chin towards me. "Mass Movers are in high demand and we've got another person to grind-"

"You're alive!" Asher shouts, bursting through the tent flaps, all five foot four and maybe a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet practically jumping into a flying hug at me. I manage to catch her thanks to judicious use of bone supports and extra tendrils around her chest. This doesn't seem to bother her at all. "I was worried when I didn't see you doing your whole 'Rawr, I am murder-blender, hear me stab!' thing near the end but I never doubted you'd make it out for a second! Anyway, I'm here to take over the mincing bits while you try to be less of a murder-blender and more of a stabby-centipede. Is that the guy I'm going to be killing?" she asks, shifting topics as she lets go of me and walks over to Dorian, who nods and begins to stand.

"It's a pleasure-" the rest gets cut off as he slips in the gore and falls forward, only barely catching himself before his spill turns into the face-plant variety. He gets up fast though, only blushing a little. I resist the urge to laugh at him. "I'm Dorian," he says, extending a hand. "It's a pleasure."

"You said that twice and why are you naked?" Asher asks, appraising him shamelessly. Dorian looks down, then quickly attempts to cover himself, blushing furiously.

"Because I don't like trying to pick cloth fibers out of internal organs," Isidis replies, flicking her blood-coated hands at Asher and drawing a squeal. "Now get to chunking him before I have you replaced with an industrial grade paper shredder."

"Meanie!" Asher replies, sticking out her tongue at Isidis. She punctuates the statement by slapping Dorian on the shoulder, through the shoulder, sending a fine mist towards Isidis and drawing a hiss of pain from Dorian.

"Where should I go?" I ask, turning away from the impending gore fight and pulling the wood chipper back into my shell. The agent points to his wrist.

"Your bracelet has a map function. Just tell it how many people you can carry, how fast you can move, and whatever else you think is necessary. They'll assign you a route or a shelter to check, and we'll figure it out from there. Got that?" he finishes. I nod.

"Got it." I head to the door, then pause and turn around.

Isidis, freshly coated in a light misting of pink and giblets, is showing a blood-speckled Asher which parts of Dorian to prioritize and how to shred him in such a way that the bits and pieces actually end up in the pool instead of around it. She catches my eye and smiles.

"Don't slip and break your neck," she says. There's some genuine worry in there, but it's hidden behind her grin.

"I think I can manage," I say lightly. I turn back and step out into the open ground, bringing my bracelet up to my mouth.

"White Rose. I can carry up to four people at thirty miles per hour, and can possibly construct roads to facilitate other Movers. Where am I needed?"

* * *

I thought that healing was exhausting. That shifts at the hospital represented the epitome of guilty boredom, of being sick of doing the right thing. I was convinced that nothing could be worse than watching another person come into the hospital and feel just a little less empathy for them than the patient before, of wondering when I'd just stop caring.

When I ran between the sites of Bakuda's bombing, I thought that I had seen devastation. That I could never see more careless destruction, and that nothing could enrage me more.

As I lever another piece of rubble away from the entrance of an Endbringer shelter I shake my head. At least in the hospital things averaged north of break-even. At least with Bakuda I knew, roughly, what could be done to stop future attacks.

Now?

I let a piece of rubble fall, track its descent until it's out of sight, hear the crash of concrete into water, then turn back to the pile of wreckage. This doesn't feel like progress. It doesn't feel like the world is better off with each and every rock moved. It feels Sisyphean, endless and completely devoid of fulfillment. Seeing it fills me with rage, hot and sharp and _ready to rend_ , but there's no possibility of resolution. Leviathan's long gone, Erinye is dead, and even if either of them appeared in front of me, what would I do? Die aggressively at them?

I push another slab of concrete out of the way, bone grinding and breaking as it slides against the rough surface of what used to be a building, a dull burn of almost-road rash. I want to do something else. Fighting would give my blood something to cool on, healing would appease my conscience, even _art_ would feel more fulfilling than this menial labor.

The slab comes to vertical and I stare at it, then give it a tap, watching as it falls off the edge of the building.

The noise it makes when it crashes to the street is deafening.

"That should be deep enough," EKG says. "Step out of the way and I'll give it a look." I obediently step to the side, observing the cape as she peers through the scope on a scary-looking rifle aimed at the ground. She's decked out in a white raincoat decorated with red crosses modified to look like crosshairs. A single-strap backpack is slung across her back, a syringe gun rests at her side, and dull grey needles are strapped to every limb. "Okay, picking up life signs. Lots of healthy, a few that could survive without immediate medical attention, and a few that are going critical. Keep digging."

I slide another wafer of bone in between a pair of rocks, then slowly feed in mass, pushing them apart. This is the third shelter we've been to with living people inside of it, the sixth total. Two of the three empty ones looked like they had been opened from the inside, simply a case of people hearing the all-clear and assuming it was safe to go outside. A fair assumption, if also very wrong. Moving around Brockton Bay right now without a mass-Mover is a dangerous game, and if they had been willing to sit tight they wouldn't have had to navigate a flooded ruin to get to the refugee camp.

There was also one with broken doors that looked like they had been torn off by a bear the size of a house. EKG only scanned that building once, then refused to go any deeper into it. I didn't challenge her on it.

The stone shifts, then falls to the side, shattering against the pile of rubble I've already moved. They built the shelters to last, with multiple different entrances for when the initial one inevitably gets blocked. The one we're on right now has a rooftop access currently covered by no small amount of stone. Less than when I had started though, and as I shift another rock I catch sight of the reinforced steel hatch.

"I have eyes on the entrance," I say, working two pieces of rubble at a time.

"Finally," EKG mutters before stepping forward, slinging the rifle across her back and pulling out the syringe gun. "Alright then, I've stasis shots for the critical cases. Only five left, you can carry four, so I'm going to use three. How long until you have the top clear?" she asks, slipping a trio of vials into the gun, then pulling the top back and letting it snap forward, the tinkertech humming as a green light illuminates on the side.

"A minute," I say, slipping bone underneath the remaining rocks and expanding it into a sphere, brute-forcing away the last of the debris before pulling the bone back in to reveal a battered but still intact door. EKG walks over to the keypad by the door, messes with it for a second, then steps back as the metal creaks open.

"Okay everyone, most severely injured to the front first," EKG shouts as I drop down into the shelter itself. It's utilitarian, all concrete with rounded edges and easily-distinguishable yellow stripes on the walls. "I'm going to shoot them up with drugs that'll keep them alive for a few minutes and White Rose here is going to get them out. Sound good?"

"Ricky, Ariel and Sam!" someone shouts back. "They'll be at the front in a minute!" I wait four agonizing minutes as three people, each bloodied and broken, get carried on stretchers to the front of the crowd. Each gets a dart to the neck not long after being laid down, and once I see them go stiff from whatever cocktail of drugs EKG mixed up I start wrapping them in bone. As I start moving up and out of the shelter, someone throws a black box up at me which I snag smoothly out of the air.

Civilians don't spend the entire time during Endbringer fights cowering in fear. Well, some do, but there are other things to fill the painful hours with. One of them is taking a census of who's in the shelter, what injuries they have, what possessions, etcetera. It helps families reconnect, insurance companies figure out who to pay benefits to, and just generally smooths out the aftermath of the battle. Even now, a database is being compiled comparing the number of confirmed dead or confirmed alive to the original population of the Bay.

A pillar of bone crumples a weakened car roof, but I take it in stride, throwing out two more limbs to steady myself. The database is never complete. Some people always decide to stay at home, either by making a rational decision based on the distance to the nearest shelter or simply caving to bullheaded stupidity. Some people get caught up in the press and don't enter in time, victims of bad luck or poor civic planning. Some people just don't get recorded and waste days of some poor bureaucrat's life because they couldn't spend a few seconds to write their name on a sheet of paper in legible text.

I see the twisted tunnel up ahead and pick up the pace. No one has seen any more Erinye clones, but I still move carefully through the city just in case. This close to the camp I feel safer though, and EKG's drugs don't work forever.

As I pass through the tunnel Vista gives me a tired nod, which I return. I don't know how long she's been maintaining the tunnel for, but it hasn't dropped since I first saw it. I shake my head once I'm clear and heading for the medical tents. I never really appreciated what Shaker 9 meant. Now I can't help but think about how easy it would be for her to collapse buildings or destroy delicate machinery. All that power in the hands of a girl who can't be out of middle school yet.

"Delivery," I say, dropping the three stasis'd patients on triage stretchers. A pair of EMT's immediately start diagnosing them, muttering obscure words to one another as they place marked post-it notes on the few bits of dry clothing left. I turn away, a heavy tiredness descending as I lift my bracelet to my mouth.

"White Rose, waiting for a zone," I say dully. A red arrow pops up on my bracelet and I obediently follow it, once more ascending to my stilts.

This? The rescue work? It's not fun. It's doesn't necessarily feel good, either emotionally or intellectually. I'm reminded of one of Mom's lectures on All Quiet on the Western Front. The real hell of the battlefield wasn't the bombing, wasn't the gas, wasn't the dawning realization of the scale of a 'modern' war.

It was the boredom.

Days, weeks of inaction, of wet, muddy, putrid life in the trenches, with terrible food and limited outlets for energy, punctuated by brief bouts of suicidal charges on both sides, artillery shelling, and death that you could never predict, never properly defend against. But before that? Pure banality.

I hate the monotonous searching. I hate the tedious, careful procedure, always trying to ensure that no one gets left behind. I understand it all, but it doesn't change the fact that I don't see any fruit from my labor, that I'm a glorified drone that happens to fall into the nice little box of 'strong and mobile.'

Searching for dying civilians doesn't feel heroic. It doesn't feel like anything. But it needs to be done.

Besides, since when have I gotten what I wanted?

* * *

Too many hours later and I _have_ to take a break. I can barely keep my eyes open, even with caffeine, and eventually Isidis throws in the towel after she barely manages to graft some zombie-woman's head back on.

"Okay, I'm going to mess up something important in someone important if I don't get some sleep soon," she says, stepping out of the pool on shaky legs, an uncharacteristic waver in her voice. "Rose, mind helping me get to bed?" Once she's gore-free and dressed, we get guided by a PRT agent to a guarded sleeping tent, mercifully far away from the hives of activity. Inside are curtained-off cots with labels outside that read Hero, Villain, or Independent. Only one bed is open. Isidis sighs, then moves the marker over to Hero.

"Looks we're going to have to double up," she says without the energy for an innuendo. "Don't snore or I'll cut off your head and put it on top of the most rotted corpse I can find." I can't bring myself to bother to reply and simply fall onto the bed, bone pulling under my skin and letting me feel the surprisingly soft sheets. I roll around, gather the covers, and close my eyes. There's a rattle of metal on metal, and a few moments later I feel Amy fall down behind me.

"Fucking blanket hogs," she mutters, but there's no heat to it. "They're going to get us up in six hours if there isn't an emergency," she whispers. "I'm going to conk out, alright?" Nearer to the end of the sentence, her words get lighter, looser, and I can feel her breathing getting deeper.

That's alright though. In between her warmth, the touch of cloth, and the quietness of not-rain, I'm already falling into a peaceful, welcome black.


	48. Rot 2

"Rose."

Something soft pokes my mask, disturbing me from the gentle void. I gently nudge it away with my face and squeeze the warmth in my arms. Still tired.

"Rose."

Another poke. This time I curl down to avoid it, chin encountering something hard partway. If I could get a little more sleep, I'd be good. Just a little more.

"Rose, if you don't wake up right now, I'm going to resort to desperate measures."

I put the words together and decide to ignore them. Worst case scenario is a bucket of water to the face, and the warmth in my arms should take care of that.

Something tickles my armpits. Then my sides. "Dammit, Vicky was ticklish. Why can't you be the same?" I've heard this voice before. Can't place it, but the name it said rings a bell.

"Quiet. Sleepy," I grumble. A few more minutes. Like, fifteen. Or thirty. Or a lot.

"Damnit, Rose," the voice groans. Then I feel a pressure on my butt and _who the FUCK is groping me!?_

I roll over, bone tearing out of my skin, ripping through cloth and encasing me in armor. If whoever did that thinks they can get away with something less than a _stabbing_ they've got-

"Woah! Chill!" Amy shouts, and my gaze snaps to her. "It's just me!" She's underneath me, eyes wide and hands spread out against the bed. "Stop!" she shouts, a pinched note to her voice, high and breathy.

I become conscious of our position. Of how I have Amy on her back, with my hand at her throat and thorns curling out of my armor. Of how the bedding is torn from my sudden motion. Of what this must look like to an outside observer.

I freeze, then slowly uncurl my fingers, pull some bone back in, and roll to the other side of the bed.

 _Fuck_.

"Sorry," Amy says quietly, hoarsely. I'm staring at the ceiling, but I can picture her face, held still to hide the residual fear. "I didn't know you were going to react like that." I remain silent, brain searching for a response to qualify my actions. On the one hand, _no_ , do not grope me. On the other hand, I _choked_ her.

Why did I do that?

"Neither did I," I reply quietly. We both lie there for another minute, miserably silent.

"We slept for nine hours," Amy says calmly, changing subjects and beginning to disperse the awkwardness. I could kiss her. "They're more or less finished with the healing and initial evacuations. They just want us to go so they can clear out the rest of the tents. That, and some of the capes we healed are making noises about getting certain body parts back." Right. The women probably want their boobs back.

"Okay," I reply. "Let's get out of bed."

Mercifully, she doesn't turn it into a joke as the two of us roll off the now-ruined cot. Amy pulls on a more rugged-looking version of her costume, complete with heavy-looking combat boots. Meanwhile, I stare at the remains of my tank top and panties among the shredded sheets, skin going red under my mask. Of all the times and places to lose control of my bone projection, this is arguably among the worst. It took a long time to learn how to use my power without destroying whatever I was wearing, and during my practice sessions I always carried a spare set of clothes for precisely this reason. I grit my teeth and quietly pick up the torn fabric, storing it inside a pocket of my armor. The next time this happens, I'm going to have some back-up clothes in my armor. Maybe two sets.

"I don't suppose you have some spare underwear?" I ask Amy as casually as I can. "I shredded mine." She looks at the bed, then at me. I can practically see the lewd comments springing to mind as she flashes me a quick smile, but it's only there for a second before her expression goes back to something more professional.

"There should be a supply of clothes somewhere in the camp," Amy answers. "It'll be around the refugee organization center, and they'll have something separate for capes there." She walks out of the curtained booth and I follow.

Outside is flurry of activity, if less frantic and less colorful than the battle itself. The black of PRT agents and the white of emergency services are predominant, with a few neon yellow suits of hazard workers thrown in.

"This way," Amy says, pulling me towards a truly absurd line of people waiting in front of a row of pavilions, chattering and shouting at one another, the cacophony punctuated by the screams of children and an unintelligible intercom droning on and off at seemingly random intervals. I gape behind my mask at the sheer _number_ of individuals, each soaking wet and dirty, each with their own wants and needs, their own story.

"Are they all from the shelters?" I ask, shaking my head at the sight. I knew intellectually that Brockton Bay wasn't exactly small, but the difference between knowing a city is several hundred thousand people and _seeing_ several hundred thousand people is...

Staggering.

"Pretty much yeah," Amy replies. "Civvies go there to get assigned to refugee camps, reconnect with family, and to get herded to wherever they'll be most useful. There's a separate line for parahumans," she adds, pulling me towards a much more isolated area by the landing pads filled with people in costumes. "The local capes typically get seen last since they're not going anywhere, so while we wait we can get you some clothes." I see her open her mouth to make a snarky comment, then close it, a look of disappointment on her face. I sigh.

"You get one-" I start.

"Gee Rose I knew I was good but I didn't know you were into the kinky stuff wanna try hanging onto those panties for a little longer next time I'm pretty sure I can find a far better bed for you to choke me on," she interrupts, the words rushing out all in one go before she descends into laughter, long and loud and mortifying. I sigh again, shaking my head.

"This is why we don't hang out more often," I mutter darkly. There's no heat to it though, and once Amy's able to walk again we proceed to a folding table manned by a woman in a neon yellow vest with reflective tape, work jeans, and a brown shirt.

"Names and needs please," she says, short and to the point.

"Isidis and White Rose, clothes and secondary services. We're locals," Amy says, still smiling. We get some directions to another tent, and less than ten minutes later I'm no longer going commando under my armor. It's a small thing, but it does help me feel a little more human. It also makes me think about my probably-destroyed dresser, about how I'll have to buy an entirely new wardrobe, about how much that's going to cost, about how I'll have to explain where the money for that comes from to Dad-

Fuck. Dad.

"I'm going to go check something out," I say casually. Amy gives me a skeptical look, then motions subtly to her face. I nod, and she nods back solemnly.

"Come back to the medical tent when you're done," Amy says, shooing me with one hand. "I'll be giving people their bodies back, plus or minus a cup size or an inch." I don't bother replying and instead head back to the cape help desk. Another wait in the line and I'm in front of the same woman.

"If I wanted to look up someone on the database of survivors, how could I do that?" I ask quietly. She opens up a laptop, hits a few keys, then spins it around. There's a search bar in the middle of the page, cursor blinking steadily.

"Enter the name you're looking for, then hit control, alt, delete," she says. "This computer's been programed to wipe itself very clean after each search, so don't bother trying to figure out any other cape identities." I let the implied insult pass and type in Dad's name, then hit enter.

For a few agonizing seconds the screen is blank.

Then it's not.

* * *

When I get to the medical tent it doesn't take Amy long to figure out something's wrong. Maybe it was my lack of response to her jokes. Maybe it was my lack of response to anything. I don't really keep track of what happens for the next few hours besides that the fact that the regenerator who offered to donate flesh for the sexual organ reconstruction pool was far less tolerant of the wood chipper than Dorian. A combination of apathy and broken eardrums got me through it, and once we stopped giving women supermodel bodies Amy dragged me off to meet her family.

I don't remember a whole lot about what happened after we left the medical tent. I do remember getting introduced to Brandish ("Call me Carol when we're not in the field."), Flashbang ("Are you okay?"), Vicky ("Guys...") Manpower ("Hey.") and Shielder. I remember deciding not to ask about where Lady Photon or Laserdream were.

Also, apparently Brockton Bay has been condemned.

Normally they send a survey team to assess the damage first and try to see if there's anything salvageable, but Dragon's photos from space, eyewitness testimony, and the fallout from some of the more absurd powers used to combat Erinye has made that a foregone conclusion. Better to just start the relocation process now. Carol offers me a place to stay in the interim. Amy gives her a look that could split rocks, but I appreciate it in a distant kind of way.

A few hours later I get teleported to the PRT headquarters in Boston with the rest of New Wave. A boy made of metal greets us and directs us to some guest rooms.

"They're as secure as we can get them," he assures us. "Feel free to let your hair down." I incline my head politely and head into the room, closing the door behind me as I check it out. There's a dresser filled with a variety of men's and women's clothing, a small-but-not-cramped bathroom, and a bed large enough for two.

I undress, then lay down on the bed. Once I'm comfortable, I slowly push out a shell of bone, a continuous object that runs from my toes to my mouth. The cloth recedes from my senses, a muted pressure on my back, and I slowly eliminate all connection to my skin, pulling into myself until the only thing I can feel is bone.

I stay there, observing the sensation. It's not enjoyable, but it's also not miserable. Purgatory.

Then I _shatter the shell as violently as I can_ -

* * *

"White Rose?"

I slowly pull myself to the land of the waking, sitting up and taking in the injuries I've inflicted on the room. The bone shards didn't seriously break anything, but there are more small nicks in the walls than I care to count.

"Are you alright? It's been twelve hours since we've heard from you, and you weren't answering the phone," someone yells through the door. I look at the bedside table. There's a landline there with a blinking red light at the bottom. The handle is a little scuffed up, but it weathered the explosion remarkably well.

"I'll be out in a minute," I call, spinning in place and putting my feet on the ground. The bone scattered on the floor warps flat under my gaze, turning into ivory tiles that cover the carpet fairly tastelessly.

I can't bring myself to care.

I throw on the first set of clothes that fit from the wardrobe then unlock the door. There's a girl far shorter than I am in a black and red costume standing there. She promptly turns around.

"Uh, I'm not sure if I'm cleared to know your identity," she starts, staring at the wall. "I think there are some masks in one of the drawers if you want." Right. Identity. I push out bone around the clothes and walk down the corridor towards the elevator at the end of the hall.

"Oooooor you could do that," the girl say quietly. "That's also cool." Two steps echo in the corridor before she tries to talk to me again. "Anyway, it's lunch time, and the crazy corpse girl told me to get you for food or else she'd start a zombie apocalypse. I think she was joking, but better safe than sorry, right?" I think about it for a moment, then dismiss the thought. Isidis needs to be touching the meat to animate it, and even if she could create a plague of some sort the moving corpses wouldn't necessarily be under her control. Better to just give a cult Brute ratings and declare herself queen of whichever city strikes her fancy.

"Right?" the girl says, searching for reassurance. I don't supply it.

Eventually we reach the lifts, and the girl swipes a key card at the door. The silence continues as the elevator arrives and we get in.

"My name's Roulette, by the way," the girl says. "I'm a Ward from Boston. Which is the city you're in." Another silence. "Uh, could you say something? I'm kinda getting serial killer vibes here."

"Isidis probably couldn't start a zombie plague," I say. The door opens and I walk out of the metal box, leaving behind the sputtering girl.

I follow the signs to the cafeteria, then load up a plate with sandwiches, fries, and two hotdogs. Once I'm done grabbing food, I scan the room. The metal boy from last night is sitting with what looks like a hunchback and another boy in a fox outfit at one table, and several members of New Wave are eating at another. PRT troopers are scattered about in small groups, talking and laughing at this or that, and one of them notices me, making eye contact and motioning to the seat next to them.

I walk over to an empty table, sit down, and eat. The food tastes like food, but I can't bring myself to care about it. I get through maybe half of what I picked up. The rest goes in the garbage.

I head back to the elevators and just stare at them for a while, waiting for someone to card me back to my room. Eventually an arm reaches around me and swipes the front of the reader, then presses the down button. I look to the owner. Amy.

"Want to go to the hospital?" she asks, looking straight ahead. When I don't respond, she goes on. "I'm not going to have the same sort of set up that I had in Brockton General, but I figure I can help a few transplants go better. If you wanted to help out I can probably do more." I give it a thought. Stay here, go out.

I can't bring myself to care.

"Sure," I say noncommittally.

* * *

Amy's right. She doesn't have the same resources that she had in Brockton Bay. I grind up some organ donors to start her off, but they don't last long. It'll take a while for people to get used to Isidis, for families to start donating the recently deceased to the general pool. Until then, we're limited to working with a few good, dead samaritans that volunteered for organ donations and fixing broken bones with the material I push out.

Ten hours pass faster than I can feel.

We both head back to the PRT building. Apparently Carol is looking into more permanent residences already. The fund for Endbringer relocation is generous, and her homeowner's insurance will pay out by the end of the month. Chances are they'll end up with a nicer home than they started with.

I pick up a proper badge. Now I can card myself in and out. The agent who hands it to me makes it clear that losing it is a crime. I tell them I understand, then head back up to my room. The bone tiles are still there. Once more I strip down, toss the clothes on top of the dresser, and lay down on the bed. I push out more bone, isolate myself, and experience near-nothing.

Then I _shatter the shell as violently as I can_ -

* * *

Amy tries to make small talk in the down time between patients. It's never anything heavy, nothing of importance, so I don't bother replying. She doesn't stop though, and she keeps dragging me out for lunch.

She brings guests sometimes. Vicky's clearly uncomfortable and tries to make up for it by filling the air with chatter. I can feel the effort, but it comes across as forced, more irritating than anything else. When she brings her boyfriend he convinces Vicky to tone it down, to let the silences drag out a bit. I appreciate it. In one instance Amy leaves me with a pale-skinned, brown-haired boy. A work friend of Dean's, she says. Once she disappears, he asks me if I'd mind if he did some work. I say no. He promptly pulls out a tablet and starts sketching, staring at the screen grimly and swiping the stylus like a surgeon, each move tight and controlled, like a man on a mission he's not sure he can complete.

I feel that.

We both just sit there in silence for a while, and when Amy comes back words are had about the lack of conversation. Her final gambit is to track down John and have him treat me to a meal. He asks about opening up shop again. I try to make flowers. To make the spheres of bones. To make anything.

All that comes out are blades.

He decides to delay his plans for the foreseeable future, and gives me his card. Again. When I get back to my room I cover it in bone, a smooth pill of white, and gently place it in the dresser among the clothes too small for me to wear. It'll be safe there.

I lie down on my bed, fall into my power, and _shatter the shell as violently as I can_ -

* * *

"You wanna go out?" Amy asks, sipping water from a cheap hospital cup. I shrug. "Cool," Amy says, nodding decisively. "Let's head out." She tosses the cup into a garbage can, then heads for the showers.

We shower in relative peace. Amy makes a few comments when she looks in on me, but I don't bother responding to them. More stupid jokes. Amy-stupid, but still stupid. On the way to the cafe she tries more small talk, but I'm too tired to even bother pretending to respond. Eventually, she trails off and we walk in silence, trapped alone in our thoughts.

It's almost worse than talking.

"Table for two," Amy mutters to the host. We get directed to seats on the street next to two other couples. They quiet down as we approach, but once we're sitting and perusing our menus they go back to their respective conversations.

"So, what looks good?" Amy asks. I shrug.

"The special," I answer, dropping the menu onto the table. All restaurants have a special. All of them are palatable. It doesn't make a difference in the end.

We sit there in an awkward silence, Amy staring at me as I stare at anything else, searching for something to hold my gaze. Eventually I just cover my eyes with bone, the lenses of my mask preserving the illusion of attentiveness, and let the chatter of pedestrians and other diners wash me out of the world.

Some time later ceramic clinks against ceramic. "Your meals," a woman whispers.

"Thanks," Amy says, irritation creeping into her voice. I pull my bone shutters back and look at my meal. Tubular noodles in red sauce. Edible. I form a fork out of bone, spear a few, and slowly begin to eat. After a moment I notice Amy staring at me, food untouched and a decidedly _angry_ expression on her face.

"You know what that is?" she asks, and I can hear how fragile her civility is, like glass trapped inside a tornado. I shrug and go back to eating. "Penne all'arrabbiata," she continues. "The first thing we ate together." I wait to see where she's going with this. Amy drops her head in her hands. "Oh my fuck. I have been trying to get a rise out of you for days. I dropped in on you while you were showering, tried to talk about that flower stuff you're so into that it practically counts as a language, and set up, like, six different dates, including this one! What do I get? Not recognition, that's what," she mutters, head coming up just enough to glare at me, and gesturing at my bowl with one hand. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to convince a noteworthy chef to pick a pasta dish as their weekly special? Then to tell them to deliberately sabotage it with more spices than anyone can enjoy in a desperate attempt to shock some sad sack out of her funk?" She's shouting now, her other hand adding to the exaggerated motions she's making, animated in a way I haven't see in a long time. "Like, Jesus, Rose, show me _something_." She looks up at me, pleading. I take another bite of pasta, mulling over her words.

"It does taste hot," I say quietly. Amy stares at me. Then she lets out a noise somewhere between a huff and snort of disgust and glares at the street.

"Vicky, aura."

A glow of admiration suffuses me, loosening the knot in my chest I didn't know I had even as _fightfightfight_ courses through my system, telling me that _there's something scary here hold them close and feed it blades!_ I lean back towards the source of the sensation, armor peeling off, trying to get closer to it, pulling Amy with me because she needs to feel this too, searching for any threat to the source with cilia and eyes and _who_ ** _fucking_** _dares?_

And then the feeling is gone and I come to my senses.

I've turned around in my chair, half in and half out, and have pulled Amy across the table, one arm around her, bare skin rubbing up against harsh costume weave. My other arm is curled around something hard and immutable and I can feel a hand pressing against my head, as soft and forgiving as a battleship. Out of the corner of my eye I see platinum blonde hair and blue eyes glaring at me with a combination of cold calm and barely-restrained hostility.

"Let. Go," Victoria says, steady and hard as stone. Slowly, shamefully, I do, starting with my arms (promptly sheathed in bone once more), then moving onto the blades pointing out in every conceivable direction, angry and twisted. Once those are done I pull in the tendrils, reeling them back in, receding into myself until it's just armor, just me in the seat with the Dallon sisters on either side and a dozen civilians staring at what could've become a massacre.

Damnit.

"Sorry," I say quietly, looking down. "I don't know what came over me." Amy snorts, once more on her side of the table, costume stained by spilled food and drink. She doesn't seem to care though, and Victoria slowly adjusts her chair until she's facing me, face set and arms crossed.

"My aura projects awe for me into people I like and terror into people I don't," Victoria says, remarkably calm for a woman who just got manhandled by a crazy parahuman. "People that I have a more complicated relationship with get a more complicated mix."

"She was here from the beginning," Amy says, the displeasure in her tone digging into my heart, a screw twisted into an open wound. "I asked her to be here because I really, _really_ want my friend back. That, and I don't want to see you in pain anymore. It's not okay for you to be hurting yourself all the time, and if I have to literally master you out of your funk, then so. Fucking. Be it," she says, and underneath the near-snarl I can hear worry, the same frantic doubling-down on her own competency that she goes to when the patient is very, very far gone, so far gone that she's not sure she can bring the whole person back, that she's not sure what fragments will be left. I can imagine the set of her arms, the furrow in her brow, the bunch of her jaw as she clenches it, pushing down any discomfort she feels to get the job done. It's the same sort of expression she'd be wearing in a pediatrics ward on a bad, bad day, but I'm too busy staring at my hands to see it.

"Sorry," I say quietly. What else is there to say?

"I don't want 'sorry'," Amy says, and I can hear a chair creak as she settles into it, more control seeping into her voice. "This isn't about fault, about someone being wrong, about settling the scales. This is about you not suffering anymore, or at least suffering less. You don't say anything unless other people talk first, and even then you stick to monosyllables unless absolutely necessary. You're not doing art anymore, and when I asked John about why you weren't he plead the Fifth. Rose," she says quietly, reaching across the ruined meal to grab my shoulder, "I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong. Please, let me in."

We sit there for a long time. Long enough that people drain from the restaurant completely, leaving the three of us alone. Eventually Victoria gets a call and floats off after exchanging a few mumbled words with Amy. Then it's just us alone in the restaurant. I imagine people gawking at us from the street as we sit there. I don't hear any cameras though. No requests for autographs, for a selfie. Amy must have her angry face on.

I'd be more amused by that if I didn't know it was aimed at me.

Eventually I get up, puppetting myself with bone. I try to think of something, anything, to say.

Instead I walk out of the restaurant, silent. Amy follows a step behind me all the way back to the PRT building, her presence pushing me forward, a different kind of hurt that's always on the edge of my perception. When I get back to my room I pause at the door, thinking about the shards of bone in the room. What Amy would say if she saw them.

"Amy-" I start.

"Are the next words out of your mouth going to be telling me to go away?" Amy asks quietly.

I don't answer.

"If you want to isolate yourself, if you want space..." I can hear a tremor in her voice, so alien it takes me almost a minute of silence to recognize it as despair. "I can do that," she whispers, defeated. "Just tell me you'll come back. Eventually." There's another silence. "Please," she asks, an almost-choke in her voice. "I don't want to lose my friend."

I nod, forcing an assurance I _don't fucking feel_ into my stance as I continue to stare at my door. I hear footsteps moving away from me. I wait outside, staring at my door as I hear the elevator open, then close, then slightly hum as it moves to a different floor.

I try not to think about Amy. Instead, I quietly enter my room. The debris on the floor is now ankle-deep, and if I didn't armor up with boots the shards would be cutting my legs with every step. There are gouges in the walls, mostly shallow. The wallpaper's ruined, and there are a few spikes that stick out, little claws and teeth that I can feel singing to me ever so slightly.

I don't mind the sound. One more thing to distract me from my thoughts.

I toss my undergarments on top of the dresser as I walk towards the bed. Someone's been leaving new ones for me. I don't know who. I appreciate it though, enough to leave a sunflower for them every time. It's always still there when I get up though, and the pile's beginning to get a little unreasonable.

Once I brush the splinters off my bed, I lay back and think about nothing. I try to, at least. I think about Vicky, about the patients we've seen, about the taste of the pasta, switching subjects as soon as they get too close to Amy.

I have no idea how badly I've fucked up.

None of it matters because Dad is dead.

I roll over in the bed, screw my eyes shut against the pain that _I can't get used to_ , push out all the bone I can _even though it doesn't help_ and _shatter the shell as violently as I can_ -


	49. Rot 3

It doesn't take long for someone to challenge the new capes in town.

"It's the Teeth!" a man yells as he runs down the street with all the ungainly speed he can manage. "The Teeth are attacking!" Isidis promptly stands up from our exceptionally shitty lunch date and starts sprinting in the opposite direction, towards the danger, and after a brief moment of confusion I follow.

 _I'm not losing her_.

Isidis is fast, Olympian fast, and when that gets stacked on top of a literally inhuman circulatory system she could reasonably be assigned a Mover rating. At the end of the day though, she's still ground bound, limited to purely conventional movement. Halfway down the block I've caught up with her, bone reaching out in half a hundred limbs to snag on cars, on railings, on any firm-looking graspable object, pulling me forward faster than most motorcycles.

"I'll take care of the civilians," Isidis says as she slows to a stop just in front of the corner. She doesn't seem to be even remotely out of breath. "Stay alive." I nod once as I pass her and tear around the corner, tendrils creaking under the pressure of supporting one hundred and thirty pounds and a whole _fuckton_ of bone as I take in the scene.

Bodies litter the street , some armed and armored, some not. A man covered in spiked armor, melee weapons, and explosives walks among them, spinning a baseball bat studded with nails in one hand and whistling merrily. As I fall to the ground and roll to standing he pauses in the middle of the street, cocking his head as he examines me.

"Heard there was some game around here," he says, smiling behind a mask of blades as he levels his weapon at me. "The remnants of Hookwolf's crew are supposed to be in town, and I figured I'd have a go at them. Seems like I'm going to have to settle for his protege." He shakes his head in mock regret even as clones start spilling out of him like an endless deck of cards falling to the floor, the arrangement of their armor and weapons subtly different. "Should be easy to get a trophy, though!" The clones dash forward, a mob of nearly-identical minions trampling over one another in their eagerness to fight me.

The first gets a spike of bone through the eye. The second, a blade across the throat. Three and four are stabbed in the stomach by a pair of prongs large enough to halt their progress. Five, six, and seven eat flak shards sharp enough to shave with and fall back screaming. I'm not sure how many die to the phalanx of spikes I throw out next, and after that a veritable tidal wave of meat is pushing me back, forcing me to brace myself against the literal press of bodies.

"I saw that killing power there. A fighter then!" a voice calls. I stop bothering with needles and blades, switching to rapidly-growing claws and mouths, serrated teeth and tangled fangs that aim for damage over precision. It's not enough. There are too many bodies. "The Teeth are always looking for people who want to play hardball. Wanna switch teams?" I don't dignify that with a response and push myself up on a platform of bone, ignoring the blows on my armor in favor of just _shoving_ the offenders away with crude pillars of _fuck off_. Once I no longer feel impacts on my primary layer of armor I cautiously look around, now perched safely above the chaos.

Somewhere behind the back lines one Spree casually plucks a grenade off another, who then proceeds to run forward and try fruitlessly to climb my pillar of bone. "Aww, can't have that shit, can we?" he asks rhetorically, bouncing the metal sphere in his palm. "Here, let me help you get down from there!" He tosses the grenade up high, then smashes it with the bat, an audible _clang_ ringing through the air. I trace the arc, trying to figure out it's trajectory, until I see it roll to a stop by-

 _NO!_

A _boom_ too loud to hear properly echoes across the street as Isidis gets thrown away from where she was crouched by a now-dead civilian and slams into the side of a building, falling to the ground and remaining _far too still_.

"Now come on down and see if you want a go!" he shouts, arms spread wide, still spewing clones. "Come on, you know you want to!"

I jump off the pillar, growing a pair of platforms beneath my feet as I fall down into the writhing mass of bodies. Some of them _crunch_ beneath me, crushed beneath the thick sheets of bone. It doesn't stop others from trying to climb up to me, stomping on one another in their haste. I don't bother with them and force myself forward, closing the distance between the original and I. I see his eyes go wide, then harden, and the spray of clones cuts off, leaving only a mess of bodies lunging forward, the original lost in the melee. I start lashing out at random, all furious tearing and rending of flesh, _looking for the man who hurt Amy!_

A grenade goes off, shattering plates of bone and doing _fuck all_ else. Corpses fly to the side, scattered by the shockwave, and I see new clones popping up to take their place.

And I see their source.

 _You don't get away that easy_.

This time I stilt _over_ the horde, pushing off ever-lengthening poles of bone to gain altitude until the dozens of clones all looking up at me have to squint against the glare of the sun. Only one of them looks concerned about this though, his grimace visible behind his mask of blades.

 _Found you_.

When I fall, it's silent. The clones scramble over one another, trying to reach my landing point even as the original tries to bury himself in meat. I have mass and speed though, and bodies burst when I land. Someone screams in the tangle of broken limbs. I push out more bone, warding off rapidly-degrading clones with a sphere at least six inches thick as I pull their progenitor face-to-face with me, alone together. Spree opens his mouth-

-and it promptly gets filled with a spike of bone, emerging from my right hand and continuing to protrude out the back of his head.

 _No more games_.

I shatter the sphere outwards, launching shrapnel and knocking over the last of the clones as I search for Amy. I see her hunched form where it landed, still motionless. A few long steps and I'm beside her, shoving meat from the corpse formerly-known-as-Spree into her body, trying to match the parts as close as I can as the bits slip and slide between my fingers.

 _pleasebealivepleasebealivepleasebealive_

The flesh melts, then shifts, crawling from where I haphazardly pressed it into different parts of her body, organs reforming and skin closing. She still looks too pale. I cut open Spree's throat, trying to hit every artery, then hold his parted neck over a patch of bare, smooth stomach. Blood quivers, then drains into the skin, and a more healthy pallor returns. After a moment her eyes flutter, followed by a series of hacking coughs.

"Ugh, anyone catch the license number of the-" the rest gets cut off as I pull her into a hug and release a breath I didn't know I was holding.

 _Alive_.

* * *

I answer some mindless questions about the fight. Who started it, what happened, why I killed Spree. They tell me they're probably not going to make a big deal of it, but I should get a lawyer on call anyways. The Teeth don't have a legal team to speak of, but what I did was close enough to over the line that an advocacy group or overly-ambitious lawyer might decide to try and make an example of this event.

It all washes over me, really. A stream of words I hear, understand, process, then promptly move on from. I give them assurances that I won't use this level of force again unless absolutely necessary and they let me go, the card of the PRT's legal team tucked somewhere in my armor. I'll put it next to John's when I get back to my room.

But first, Amy.

I spot her talking to Vicky on a rooftop across the street, bodies closed inward, the two sisters discussing something in as much privacy as they can get. I lean back against the building behind me, watching. Waiting.

Vicky says something and Amy reacts violently, slashing her hand across her chest and stomping her foot. Vicky backs off at that, both hands held up in surrender, then lowers them as she begins to talk again. Eventually they come to a resolution, stepping into a short hug which then transitions into a short flight from the rooftop to the ground. A few more words get exchanged, one more hug, and Vicky gives me a quick glance I can't quite read from this distance. Then she flies away, a vision of blonde and liberty green. I track her until she becomes too small to see, then turn back to Amy. She walks over to me, a firm set to her eyes as she jerks her head down the street.

"We should get out of town for a while," she says, voice clipped. Tight. "Just until the Protectorate gets some reinforcements." I nod, following her passively as Amy pulls me away from the crime scene and flags down a cab.

It's not like I have anything better to do.

The cabbie is old, old enough that she looks like she could tell us about working in a factory for the first time during the Second World War. She's lively though, with a grin that still has most of her teeth, albeit more than a little worn. She introduces herself with good cheer and a name seven syllables long that I promptly forget. Amy mutters something to her, leaning between the two front seats as I collapse into the back. As we pull into traffic, an acoustic guitar and a soft voice start coming out of the radio, loosening some of the tension in my shoulders. I lean my head against the window, letting the sounds wash over me and the rhythm of the car lull me into a trance.

A hand shakes my shoulder and I turn to Amy. She's got her seatbelt on and taps her lap with one hand, mask up. I can only see her eyes, and in them I can see an exhaustion to rival my own.

"You're wiped out. Lay down," she says. I don't have the energy to argue, so I fall the other way, helm shifting under my skin, leaving only the blank white full mask. Soon I feel Amy's fingers in my hair, combing through it, massaging my scalp. I shift my head more fully into her palms, losing myself to the sensation.

* * *

I wake up slowly. The sun is up again and I promptly put a pair of shutters over my eyes. Too bright. I slowly thin them, letting in the shine one ray at a time as I take inventory of my situation. I'm laying down, a rather nice pillow beneath my head, and I can smell grass and the sea.

"Sleeping Beauty is awake," a voice says dryly. I fully open my shutters and look into Amy's face from below. She gives me a tight smile. "You would not believe how much of a pain it was to drag you up here," she says, looking away from me to something ahead of us. "You better appreciate it."

"What do you mean?" I ask, slowly propping myself up on my elbows, blinking the sleep clear of my eyes as I sit up.

Then I see it.

The obelisk is a massive hunk of black stone, twice as tall as I am and wide enough that I wouldn't be able to wrap my arms around it. The top is jagged, with a green flame that doesn't seem to be burning anything flickering at the tip, but the rest is smooth, glossy, and I can make out the engravings on the sides from ten feet away. In front of it are a quartet of white marble pillars as tall as I am arrayed in the middle of a pool of water, with pure white pebbles covering the floor of the pool. A modest garden surrounds it, mostly bushes and gently blooming trees, cultivated in that way that only freshly planted greenery can be.

It might've be serene if not for the devastation beyond it.

From where we are we should be able to see the streets of Brockton Bay, as tangled and nonsensical as they were. We should be able to see the gradual fade from the deserted warehouse district to the sketchy apartment complexes to the commercial area to Downtown to the higher-end residential areas to Capitol Hill, with the few parks the city still had occasionally breaking up the brutal urban landscape. The Boardwalk should be hemming it all in, running along the coast line, open from dawn to past dusk, ready to serve tourists a steady supply of souvenirs and drinks. Up north there should be a mass of rusted hulks, the graveyard that reminded everyone of Brockton Bay's glory days.

Instead there's ruin.

The skyscrapers have been brought low, the Boardwalk washed away, one district swept into another, the streets covered with a single massive incoherent _mess_ of destruction. Enormous pools dot the city, with a sinkhole large enough to fit an ocean liner smack in the middle of it. It's not even the middle of the city anymore. The waterline has moved inland, changing the shape of the coast into something too sharp and too alien to have occurred naturally.

During the rescue effort, I had seen that it was bad. Houses were leveled, streets flooded so deep that I'd needed to travel by rooftop, _lakes_ where there used to be shopping malls.

I just didn't put all the pieces together until now.

"Yeah, that was about my reaction," Amy says quietly, shuffling up next to me. "Like, Brockton sucked. A lot. We had a Nazi problem, a drug problem, a corruption problem, an education problem..." she laughs without humor. "If you bothered to index it, we probably had more problems than upsides. It was home, though."

I continue to stare at what remains of my home.

"So yeah. That's gone. They condemned the city basically as soon as the capes departed. They decided to set up the memorial on the outskirts overlooking the city because building it _inside_ the city would make it effectively inaccessible. Roads in there are kind of a mess." She stands up, brushing grass off of her butt and jerking a thumb at the obelisk. "Names of the dead capes are on the black one. Let's check it out." She starts walking towards it, following a long cobblestone path that winds carefully through a series of bushes. After a moment I follow her.

I recognize a few names on it. A lot of names.

Shrike. Alex Swallow. Springboard. Jeremey Zacksman. Titania. Jennifer Ylwes. Whiteline. Unnamed. The next side. Alabaster. Chad Jackson. Armsmaster. Colin Wallis. Assault. Ethan Rebelski. Hookwolf. Brad Meadows. The next side. Lady Photon. Sarah Pelham. Laserdream. Crystal Pelham. Purity. Kayden Anders.

I do some quick math.

More than a hundred capes died. A lot more.

"This was a bad one," Amy says quietly, running her fingers over the name of her cousin. "Really, really bad. The worst in a while. And in Canberra we had to quarantine the entire city." She curls her hand into a fist and presses it against the stone, leaning her head forward. "It was bad, but it could've been worse."

"How?" I ask, something hot and mercurial breaking inside of me, flowing through my guts like poison. "How the _fuck_ could this be worse? How could losing so many _fucking_ heroes be worse? And for what? We. Lost. We lost your cousin, your aunt, your home, my home, my business, my-" I cut myself off, bone shuddering between the twin tensions of wanting to _snap_ and wanting to keep my promise to Amy in front of her, even if I've been breaking it left and right _in a desperate attempt to pretend like things are okay_. "Everything is dead," I whisper.

"No!" Amy shouts back, spinning around, tears in her eyes. "Carol's not dead, Vicky's not dead, Eric's not dead, Neil's not dead, Mark's not dead, I'm not dead, and _you're_ not dead!" She stomps over to me, glaring up into my mask, and I have to take a step back as she gets up in my face, a presence _far_ larger than her five-four frame pushing me back. "Whenever Crys put on her costume, she knew there was going to be a chance she'd end up dead. At first it was a joke, and then I had to put her back together from the boobs down. She. Knew," Amy says, poking me in the chest, right over my hammering heart. "She knew there was a chance that she wouldn't come back. Aunt Sarah knew that. Armsmaster would've known that, Tecton would've know that, everyone who showed up was willing to die." Her hand curls into a fist, pushing me back. "And some of them did. Not us, though."

For a moment, we just stand there.

"Maybe I should've," I whisper.

It slips out, and for a second I think Amy missed it. Then she looks up at me, more tears in her eyes, and her other arm comes up.

"No," she says, pulling me into a hug. "No, I don't think you should've."

I stand there, terrified of doing the wrong thing, of shattering the fragile threads of caring between us, before I give up and hug her back, armor sloughing off of me, boots falling apart, until it's me, just me, in Amy's arms, dressed in nothing but my mask and underwear, shoulders shaking as too many days of grief kept at bay with pain and silence comes flooding out, burning my eyes and throat, staining her costume, and _finally_ letting me think about _Dad_.

* * *

We stay there until the sun goes down, just talking. That's wrong. Talking implies a level of give and take, of equivalent exchange. Us talking would imply that after I finished with my problem, we'd come to some level of resolution, and then Amy would bare her soul to me and we'd work on whatever was on her mind. It implies a level of reason, of careful consideration, where each word is weighed in turn to most perfectly convey each and every idea.

That's not what happens.

I rant. I rave. I scream. I _pour_ it all out, putting the incomprehensible _mess_ of emotions into one unending vomit of noise that becomes less and less intelligible as time goes on, turning back on itself, contradictory and nonsensical. I let loose the thousand and three thoughts I have about Emma, about Mom, about school, and about Dad, a mix of tearful, naive nostalgia and completely unfair resentment. I pace across the green, ripping up grass with talons that grow hooked and jagged from my feet. I lash out, clubs blurred by the feverish haze of emotion but still hard enough to crack the bark of the freshly-planted trees. I cry, mask falling to pieces, my last piece of armor falling away and letting me smell the ocean breeze, the taste of sea salt and tears indistinguishable from one another. I fall to my knees, exhausted _but not done_ , so I fuse my joints and get back up to do it all over again, slowly ruining the ground around me, scattering dirt with errant swipes of my arms, heavy with bone and fury, letting down my walls and _finally fucking_ ** _feeling_** _it all!_

Catharsis doesn't even begin to describe it.

Eventually, I taper off. The swings of the bone weapons get slower, weaker, until a blade bites into a tree and I can't bring myself to drag it out. My voice goes hoarse, a mere whisper of what it was, and I can't form words between my ragged, heavy breaths. I fall over, still technically able to stand _but what's the point?_

I feel a hand on my back, rubbing circles into it right above my lungs.

"Feel better?" Amy asks, voice oddly muted. I shake my head.

"Not better." Not empty. Not clean. Just raw. I feel her press up against my back, her hair against my cheek as she drops her head over my shoulder.

"Different?" she tries, linking her hands in front of me.

"Yes," I say, pushing back into the contact, thinning bone, pulling it in completely in some places, trying to get closer to her. "Different. That's a word for it."

For a while we just stay in that moment, her inscrutable and me lost in thought.

"I used to like my sister. In the weird way," Amy says quietly. I wait for shock. For disgust. For anything. Instead I just feel pain. The same pain as before, taking up all of my heart, leaving no room for anything else.

"I talked to a nurse about it, and she directed me to a psychologist," Amy continues, still vulnerable, still hesitant, and still going. "He was a nice guy. Got my whole family on speaking terms with one another. Carol's still not my biggest fan, but" — she takes a breath, letting out a sort of unhappy-but-accepting huff — "but she's managing. Not sure if he's still around, but I'm pretty sure I still have his number. Just in case."

I swallow a lump in my throat. "Do you think I need it?" I ask, an ugly ball of insecurity and fear, all barbs and caustic stickiness rolling around my insides.

"I don't think you need it," Amy says. I wait for her to continue. She sighs, squeezing me tighter. "I think you could keep doing what you're doing. Keep pushing it down, hiding behind pain and bone and waiting for someone to come around and finally kill you. I think you could get sick of waiting and go out to pick a fight with the Butcher or the Nine or someone else out of your weight class. I think you're heading down a very, very dark path," she says, quiet enough that I have to strain my ears to hear her.

A breeze picks up, and on it I can smell a hint of rot.

"And you think," I struggle for the right word, "therapy will keep me off that path?" I ask, a heaviness to my eyelids that makes no sense. I've slept. Recently.

"I think it couldn't hurt," Amy answers, leaning her head into mine, still just outside my range of vision. "I think that you need to talk to someone. Like this, but more regular, more grounded, with someone who actually knows what they're doing. I hope it'll make you happier," she finishes. "I really, really hope that it makes you want to be alive again, Rose."

I reach down with one hand, placing my bare hand upon hers. It feels different without the bone. More textured. Softer.

More _there_.

"My name is Taylor," I say quietly.


	50. Post Mortem C

Everyone reacts to the audience differently. Some people shrink under it, try to hide from the eyes, try to pretend like it's not there while also fidgeting, aiming to look pretty, to look nice. Sam's still at that stage, and he hunches his armored shoulders as the applause starts up. I give him a kick to the ankle, keeping a straight face through the sting of slamming my foot into stone armor, and he promptly throws his chest out, assuming a more confident posture, looking less like a teenager in armor and more like a gladiator. More like his dad.

I appraise him, then shrug and move on. He still seems fake to me, but from the stands it might look real. Good enough to convey the idea of a spine.

Some people ignore it, let the catcalls and cheers bounce off them. Lars is like that, keeping his jaw set and eyes forward, starting off the fight with a domination game. Brad was like that too, even if he was a little more into the performance part, working in the little smiles that made the fans holler and the panties drop. I roll my eyes. Fuckin' Brad.

Then you got the people who know how to put on a show.

"You know them, the wild, untamed monster trio that posted an undefeated record before the mess up in New York! Making their long-awaited return to the team circuit after spending some time in Brockton Bay, it's Cricket, Stormtiger, and their newest addition, Sidewinder! Give it up for Menagerie!" I grin as I hear the words, a hoarse laugh escaping my throat.

I _like_ this guy.

The sound of the crowd hits me like a storm, going from two to two hundred in an instant, a cacophony of clapping, whooping, and shouting, bringing a vibrant energy I don't feel anywhere else. I drag myself forward, my missing fingers and scars on display, white on tan and practically shining under the flood lights. The crowd's roar redoubles, and I reward them by tossing my kamas up in the air, tracking their whisper-sing sounds, and catching them again, flourishing and spinning them, angling the blades to catch the light and send it back, turning them into crescents of light. I can feel the screams of approval as a physical thing, filling me up with energy, hot and sharp and ready to go.

"Fuckin' show off," Lars mutters behind me. I throw a smirk back his way, the nicks on my lips twisting it into something positively ghastly. He just rolls his eyes, stepping forward and throwing a few idle punches as air gathers around his hands and forms into claws. Sam rolls his shoulder and bends down, reaching into the sand on the ground of the pit and withdrawing a sword of stone, plain and unadorned. I sigh internally, show mask firmly in place. Going to have to break that habitual dullness and teach him how to show off.

"In the other corner, the reigning champions, coming all the way from Chicago to prove their worth, it's Snarl, Karma, and Scratch! Make. Some. Noise!"

The other three fighters walk in, all swagger, crazy grins, and matching costumes. The one in the middle is wearing a ragged wolf pelt, identity preserved by a half mask around his mouth and a warped look to his eyes that has to be a result of his power, all twisted flesh and grotesque mutation. On his right is some kid dressed up in a scrappy-looking knight outfit, lugging around a glowing sword that's gotta be tinkertech. The last one... the last one I can't see. A Stranger, then.

I take in the three of them, full of confidence and fresh off a string of victories. Meanwhile, Lars and I haven't been in a serious match for at least five years, and we haven't ever fought in a pit with Sam.

I spread my arms and jerk my chin at the wolfskin guy. He tilts his head. I flash some tooth. He curls his fingers into claws. My pulse jumps in just the right away.

This is gonna be a good night.

* * *

Brad didn't ask us to go to Endbringer fights with him. We couldn't take hits like he could, and what the fuck was I going to do? Stab one? Fuck that noise. I'd just be running around picking up idiots who started fighting without being able to tank a rocket to the side. Lars might've been able to do a little more, but he can't fly super well, and scattering some water around isn't worth his skin.

"You know," Lars says, words almost slurred by the seven beers he's had in the last hour, "It's kinda funny."

I tilt my head, rolling the empty scotch glass between my fingers. The world's gone all blurry, the humming not-hum that's always in my ears turned into something almost pleasant.

"Fuckin' Brad keeps tellin' us 'don't go, don't go, you can't take it' and which one of us dies? Him. It's fuckin' ironic," Lars mutters, popping the top off another bottle with a blast of air. I don't know if that's the right way to use that word, but I nod anyway and hold my empty glass up at him. He taps the rim with his beer, pouring a little into my glass. "Fuckin' ironic."

It was a pain in the ass finding a bar in Brockton Bay that wasn't trashed. Really fucking hard. But we kept moving, kept looking, and eventually we found some fancy hotel, went up twenty stories of trashed windows and mud on foot, and broke into the good shit.

Someone dies, you get drunk and laugh at them. That's what Brad and I did for Eddie before Lars, how it's going to be with whoever the hell comes after Lars, and how it's going to be when I finally take a hit I can't get back up from. You drink because it gets easier to laugh, laugh because it's easier than crying, and move on because if you get sad when someone dies you're not going to last long in the ring.

So when Max's brat shows up, we're both actually surprised.

"Wha?" Lars says, turning around in his stool and nearly missing the countertop with his arm. I fumble for my talking stick, try pressing the button a few times, then actually put my thumb in the right place as I shove it against my neck.

"The fuck're you doing here?" I rasp. I hate the sound of my voice through it. Too fake. It's the best of a lot of bad options, though. I'm not about to learn the wiggle finger shit. Not a cripple. Not yet.

"I want out," the brat says. "For Aster too." I blink slowly, registering the bundle against his chest.

Shit.

"Nah," Lars says, shaking his head and turning back to the bar. "Go w' Geoff. He's got it figured out. She's got powers for sure. They'll take care of her."

"I'm not sending my sister to Europe to get tortured into triggering," Theo says, adjusting the straps on the baby carrier. "I don't want her to grow up around people like Mom and Dad."

I laugh at that, and it comes out as a harsh static that causes me to wince. Fuckin' electronics. "You think we'd be better?" I ask, shaking my head. "The fuckin' twins aren't gonna gut a girl for the crowd."

"I'm not an idiot," the brat says, a tiredness seeping into his voice, and recognition clicks. Theo. Brad was mad at how Max was treating him. "Nessa and Jessica are going to continue the Empire. They don't think it's wrong. You two at least don't care. With you guys I can keep her out of it, keep her away from the gangs." I look at Lars. He shrugs.

"What's in it for us?" I ask, reaching for another bottle of beer. "We don't do shit for free."

"Mom kept a stash of supplies at home," he says, walking up to the bar. I drop my hand to a kama, but he doesn't reach for a weapon. "Just in case things went bad and we needed to run. She updated it every month. Food, ways to clean water, clothes, copies of important documents, and money." He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a billfold, and it takes me a moment to make out the numbers. The thousands. I blink.

Lotta money right there.

"This isn't all of it," he says as I look back to him. He flinches under my gaze, but he doesn't close his eyes. "The rest is somewhere hidden. We can pick it up on the way to Boston."

I look at him, silent. He doesn't look away.

Then I laugh. It's horrible, strangled, more of an enthusiastic wheeze than anything happy. Lars laughs with me, nearly doubling over, empty bottles crashing to the ground as he reaches across the the bar to steady himself.

"Fuckin' sold," I say, snatching the billfold from Theo's hand and tossing it to Lars. "Looks like we've got an employer already." I slide off the stool and punch the kid in the shoulder, sending him stumbling back, arms flying around his little sister. "Happy to be workin' with you, Mister Anders."

* * *

I roll back and let Lars toss some talons over my head. They impact the sand and explode, filling the air with grit and blinding everyone without eye protection. In other words, just me and the Stranger.

I don't need eyes to see.

I follow the humming not-humming to the wolf guy, who's currently rolling across the ground, trying to get to his feet. There's a wound across his chest that's filling up with teeth, not deep but long, a maw that reminds me of the shark-styled Changer that tried to eat Brad in Detroit. I shake my head even as I sneak up behind the cape. Sam needs to grow a pair and start trusting people to be able to take a fucking _hit_.

I leap, flipping my kamas around as I land on the Changer's back and slamming them down into his collar bones. He howls, shaking himself harder than anyone with two total feet of metal in them should be able to, and I twist around in mid air to land on my feet, taking in the new warping I've carved into him.

Two spikes of bone are jutting out of where the wounds should be, at least as long as my blades. He snarls again, spreading his arms wide as he charges across the sand towards me, hands tipped with claws and forearms covered with gnashing mouths.

Then a brown thunderbolt comes out of the sky and pins the Changer to the ground, the brown blur and monster both scraping across it as tooth and claw clashes against stone and blade. Something whines behind me and I duck in time to avoid the invisible wave of pressure that passes through where my head would've been. I turn around and catch sight of the knight figure re-chambering his sword for another swing.

Enough of that shit.

I whistle, high and loud, blasting him with nausea. The knight stutters for a moment, sword going wide, and I grin as I keep up the pressure, closing the distance.

Amateur.

This time Lars doesn't fuck around. The winds pick up, whirling faster and faster and faster until it's a fucking sandstorm. Knight takes a few drunken, angry swings, trying to tag me, but by the time he figures out I'm not the one responsible the sand is so thick in the air that you can't see two feet in front of your face. Knight keeps flailing around, but his sword and armor are loud enough that staying clear of the cuts isn't hard. I smile.

Like shit through a goose.

I run through the storm, slip behind the Tinker, and put one blade into the back his knee, just avoiding the artery. He goes down, sword falling to his side as one hand scrabbles at a dagger on his waist, but that stops when I rest a kama on his neck.

"Shows. Over." It fuckin' hurts talking without my stick, but the slight shudder I feel from the Tinker almost makes it worth it.

Slowly, Lars lets up. The sand stops whirling, slowly dropping to the ground, finally giving the crowd the show they want.

Sam's got the Changer ten feet up in the air, wriggling like a fish with a hook through his guts. His armor is at least part bone now, a pretty big drop in quality from stone and metal, but he seems to be managing. Lars has his hands raised, half a dozen talons ready to fire at a moment's notice.

"Last one in the ring better surrender," Lars shouts, voice boosted loud enough to make me wince. "If you don't, I'm just gonna start blowing shit up until they call it."

I hear the flutter of fabric in the wind and snap my head to the source. Halfway across the arena there's a scrap of white resting on the sand, stained red with fresh blood. Air horns go off, loud and triumphant, and I pull my kama out of the Tinker's leg as I kick him away, smiling as the applause falls down like rain, washing away the ache in my muscles, the sting of the scrape on my leg, and the taste of copper in my mouth.

"Would you look at that folks? A flawless victory on their return debut! Mark my words, Menagerie's going to be a team to watch!" Sam drops the Changer to the floor, slowly floating down and pointedly not looking at the growling man beside him who's cuts are closing up as I watch. A girl in a bunch of white rags walks across the arena to tend to the Tinker, who's stretching out his stabbed leg and peeling away armor. I roll my eyes as I stalk away from them. Babies.

"So, is this it?" Sam asks, fingers drumming nervously against his thigh as he scans the crowd over my head. I smirk and Lars laughs.

"Nah," Lars says, slapping Sam on the back, hand impacting stone and metal armor with the heavy sound of meat on pavement. "Now we fuckin' party."

* * *

Say what you will about raising your kid to be a bitch, it makes them easy to live with. Problem is it also makes them a fucking coward.

It didn't take long for us to get work in Boston. Strictly contract stuff, temp work, one-off things. Blasto needed some guards for something, the Teeth wanted to run their rank and file through a gauntlet, that sort of shit. Even got put on the short list for Accord, but we had to turn that one down because he wanted me to pretty up.

Thing was though, after a long night of staying awake looking at nothing, or dodging bullets from teenagers who think they know how to shoot, or beating the hell out of idiots who try to grab a few extra bucks from the public kitty, is that when you get back you really, really don't want to have to think about shit. That means you don't clean, you don't cook, and that can make living conditions really goddamn awful.

Once his money ran out, Theo made a new deal: he'd keep the place tidy and in return, he and Aster stayed rent-free. Honestly, we probably would've been fine letting him stick around without the deal. It's a pain in the ass getting groceries without a civvie ID, and Theo lost enough weight in that first month that he ended up basically unrecognizable.

That, and Lars figured he'd trigger soon enough. We needed a third to get back into the real money tournament scenes, and neither of us could find anyone in Boston worth trying to pick up. That's the reason we ran into a problem, actually.

"Not good enough, huh?" Scattershot shouts, bouncing a rock in one hand, a manic look in her eyes. "The fuck does that mean? Am I not dangerous enough for a crippled bitch and a guy whose power is blowing air really hard?" She whips her arm forward and I jump to the side even as Lars claps his hands in front of him, the air distortion canceling out the _boom_ of her power and deflecting the rock fragments. I grit my teeth as something tears into my fingers but I end up in cover behind a car and Lars starts gaining distance, lifting into the air up and away from the crazy bitch. A glance at my hand confirms that my ring and pinky finger are _fucked_. Damn. Cutting this bitch's throat then, and no one's gonna fuckin' blame us. Leave work at work, right? Don't follow people back to their homes to bitch, moan, and try to kill them.

Another _boom_ , and this time a building gets a few new holes in it. I shake my head, even as I triangulate where the cape is and tie some string around my fingers in a makeshift tourniquet. This is how you get the white hats mad and make them take off the kid gloves in public. Sure, Bastion isn't going to hold back when he sees Lars throwing a car at Ouroboros, but he isn't going to have Bravo shoot my knees out or give Dreamweaver permission to mindfuck us. Make it a show, don't hurt too many people too bad, and they'll keep things soft.

Another _boom_ , another collapsing wall. I wince. That was the loft we were sleeping in. Hope Theo didn't get perforated. Gonna have to move after this fight at any rate. I refocus on Scattershot. She's facing away from me, screaming her head off at Lars as he dances between her shots, letting her projectiles arc into empty sky or get knocked just out of the way by bursts of air.

"Really aren't ready for the big leagues, are you?" Lars taunts, firing a talon down at Scattershot, who just screams in response, shattering the street beneath her and jumping out of the way.

Right next to my hiding place.

I gather all the humming not-humming and _jam_ it into Scattershot, sending her stumbling, hands flying to her head as I stand up and flip a kama in my good hand.

I'm gonna enjoy this.

The blade flashes and a sheet of blood washes over Scattershot's right eye, and she tries to cover both her ears and rub her face clean at the same time. I shake my head, taking two lazy steps to get out of her line of sight, then cut her arm. It's not deep, but she hisses in pain all the same, and I skip to the side to avoid the spray of gravel from her kick at the ground.

"Fucked. Up," I force out, cutting her again. The side, just shallow enough to avoid organs. "Bad."

A few more cuts and some broken scenery later and I finish her off, stepping away from the spray of blood from her neck, shaking my head. Blasters are shit teammates. Most of them can take out baseline humans with a thought, and they think that makes them hot shit. They keep their distance from anyone and everything, and if you try to get them to change their habits they'll ignore you until the blade's at their throat and it's too fucking late.

I snort.

Adapt or die.

"Need a lift?" Lars asks, floating down beside me, eyes focused on my hand. I wave it at him and shake my head.

"Grab shit. Run," I rasp, trying to recall the location of the fallback safehouse. It was supposed to be a temp thing, somewhere in the warehouse district, I think? We could always shack up with a gang for a few days too, maybe call in some favors and-

"Hey," Lars nudges me out of my thoughts, pointing up behind me. "Lookee there," he says, smiling wide. I turn around, reaching out with my ears.

A figure floats in the air in front of the building covered in stone armor, rough and jagged. I can feel it as a layer over normal human flesh, but I can also feel a thickness to it that isn't like stone. In the figure's arms are a smaller lump of stone and a backpack. The panic-pack Theo made in case he needed to bug out fast.

I take in the sight for a moment.

Huh.

Wonder what set him off?

Slowly Theo comes down, landing with a _click_ of stone-on-stone in front of the two of us. Lars promptly slaps him on the arm, then shakes his hand, grinning like mad.

"Fuck, if I'd known that getting attacked by a cape would've made you trigger, I'd've done it weeks ago!"

* * *

"Ready," Sam says, standing stock still in the center of the locker room. I nod.

Then I slam a pick into his chest.

Stone fractures, cracks spider-webbing across the breastplate. Another swing and the cracks go deeper, little chips of stone falling off where I work the tip of the pick in. I switch locations, focusing on a shoulder joint. This one starts chipping immediately.

Getting Sam out of his armor's a pain in the ass, but it's worth it. Flight, armor, strength, _and_ weapons? Fucking jackpot for a pit fighter. Not as durable as Brad, not by half, but Sam tanks guns, and that's the bar to break into the big leagues. He's started learning how to hurt people too, and if we can get some style into him he'd be tearing up the singles tournaments like nobody's business.

"Think I can get myself out of the rest," Sam says, reaching up to the broken chest plate and working his fingers under a hunk of stone, pulling it away to reveal slabs of muscle and light scars from the first time we tried this. He used to get worried about shit like this, worried about showing off his body to anyone. Familiarity burned that out of him though, and now he's almost like a member of the team.

"Still not going to get in on the party?" Lars asks, scrubbing at his head with a towel as he walks over to his hanger. "Gonna be free booze, free food, and free ladies." He throws in some eyebrow wiggling and I hack out a laugh, pulling my bra off and tossing it into a bin.

"One girl. His life," I say, shucking off the last of my clothing and heading for the showers. Lars tosses me the towel and I sling it over a hook as I step into the spray of hot water.

"Gotta get back to Ashley," Sam says quietly, shaking his head. "It's her first night without a sitter." Took a while for him to get used to the name changes, but his sister took to it like a duck to water. Probably helps she was a baby when it started. Now she's in school and Sam's doing his damndest to keep her in pencils and clothes.

"All work and no play makes Sammy a dull boy," Lars says, resettling his mask on his face. "You're young, strong, and just won ten grand. Fuckin' live a little."

"Leave it," I rasp, closing my eyes and enjoying the spray of the water. "His loss." Lars is a good fighter, but he gives shit life advice. "Want. Do."

Lars snorts dismissively but drops it, heading out to join the festivities. Sam steps into the stall next to me, cranking up the cold water and soaping up. I size him up with the hum as I slowly rotate, hitting every part of my body with the near-boiling water.

He's getting handsome. Hard, but handsome. All that baby fat is gone now, and when he shaves he could pass for twenty. Built like a fighter and he's slowly getting some confidence. Smart, too, with a head for people and strategy.

I shake my head and step out of the shower. It's all wasted on him. The guy's so focused on Ashley, a girl could lay down naked on his bed with her legs spread over a sign that says 'fuck me' and he'd find something his sister needed to get done instead. It ain't healthy, but it's his choice.

I pull on some clothes, slip on my cage, and toss a pair of keys into his bin. "Bike if you want it," I say, using my talking stick this time. "Tell Ash hi."

"Will do," he says, rinsing off. I nod, turning around to head out.

"Also..."

I pause with my hand on the doorknob, not looking back.

"If you bring back a beer, maybe we could talk shop?" he asks. He's open. Cautious, but open. "We had the element of surprise this time. The initiative. Next time they're going to come to us. I want to be prepared for that."

I crack a smile he can't see. "Will do," I answer before stepping through, leaving the door to slam shut behind me.

Brad made it look so easy. A word here, a meaningful look there, and he'd get everyone to fall in line like _that_. Kept Lars and I from each other's throats, kept us from starting anything with the Heren clan and the limeys, kept the regular thugs from stabbing one another over stupid shit.

Now that's all on me. I fucked up a lot at the beginning. I tried to press Lars father than he could go, let Sam pretend like he could step away from caping for way too long, got the three of us into such deep shit I'm still not sure how we got out of it.

Now though?

Now I think I've got a pretty good handle on things.

I step into the throbbing music, the scent of tobacco and booze washing over me like a warm blanket, and zero in on Lars. He's laughing in the middle of a pack of groupies, a girl on his arm already. I shake my head and stalk over towards him, eyeing up his male companions until I settle on a slimmer brunette with a tattoo of some sort crawling up his neck.

"Sup," I say, slipping into the booth next to Lars. "Lying?"

"Only when it's true," Lars says, drawing a round of drunken laughter from the crowd with his nonsense. I smirk and grab the drink out of Tattoo's hand, swallowing it down as I maintain eye contact. He looks away first. I smile against the glass as the last of his rum and coke slips past my lips.

"What're you saying this time?" I ask, sinking into the party, letting the issue with Sam rest. He'll come around, and until then?

I'm going to enjoy myself.

It's what Brad would've wanted.

* * *

 **A/N: Accidentally uploaded this early. Rot 3 is now up.**


	51. Post Mortem V

"Disturbance on Loam and 58th," Slipshod says, his voice coming in crystal clear through my helmet's radio. "Local info is pointing to the Ambassadors tearing up the street versus some new players, multiple parahumans on scene."

"Vista and Craftsman en route," I say, grinning as I abandon the crowd of schoolchildren looking for autographs and trot towards the bike where Caleb is already leaning forward, all six feet and one hundred and seventy pounds of him. "We'll be there in less than five, make sure to have ambulances nearby." My visor lights up, directions flickering as it takes into account the powers available, police blockades, and potential enemy interference to find the fastest path through the tangle of Boston. It took a while to get used to all the functionality Chris packed into the helmet, but the new guy's been a lot of help with that, stripping out some of the more esoteric stuff and reducing it to the bare essentials. He's still trying to find his place on the team, but so far Caleb hasn't done anything monumentally stupid.

"Uh, it's going to take at least ten, probably fifteen with traffic," Caleb says as I settle in behind him, his stoic welding mask and pristine bandolier of weapons contrasting with the note of nervousness in his voice. I laugh as I wrap my arms around his midsection and pull closer, heedless of the metal.

"How much you want to bet on that?" I ask, already twisting the space in front of us, first forward, then _up_. "Come on, think like a cape." He stares at the distortion in space for a moment, then makes a small noise.

"Right," he says, revving the engine and drawing squeals of delight from the class of second-graders behind us. "Powers." With that we're off, the cycle bumping slightly as it goes over the edge of the roof of a shop forty feet and four stories away, taking us from ground level up to the Boston skyline. I hear him quietly cuss under his breath as he adjusts to the shingled rooftops, wheels slipping as they search for purchase, then catching and sending us forward with a gut-dropping moment of acceleration. I grin savagely even as I keep twisting the space ahead of us, turning our wild ride into a bumpy-if-manageable cruise, taking us up, down, and across with a flick of my wrist, a tug of my fist, and an effort of will, jumping us from angled townhouses to flat-topped office buildings to everything in between.

Powers. They're like a muscle. Exercise them, and they'll get _stronger_.

"Battlefield in forty seconds," Caleb says, two minutes after we first started driving. "Othello and Serendipity versus a Trump of some sort and a Striker/Shaker. We're on damage control and information gathering until backup arrives."

"Sounds like a plan," I say, pulling together a sidewalk and a drainpipe, turning a fifty foot drop into a curb hop. Caleb takes us back onto the street, bringing the crossroads into view.

And what a fucking mess it is.

The street looks like someone's been shelling it with a mortar, great gouges torn out of the pavement. The missing material isn't hard to find. Clumps of asphalt are scattered about haphazardly, turning the tight-but-clean roads into a mess of free cover, broken lines of sight, and a trio of parahumans going at it.

"Fucking. Stay. Still!" one of them shouts, snarling behind a mask made of white metal mesh as he swings a sedan around, a criss-cross of white lines attaching it to his arms. Tall, muscular, and bared to the waist, he's a sharp contrast to Serendipity's evening suit and a yellow dress shirt, which remain spotless as he ducks under the car, the trajectory altering just enough to avoid clipping his head. Serendipity goes in for a punch, but a burst of white energy splits the two capes apart, sending Serendipity into an elegant cartwheel and White Cage into a drunken stumble, the car crashing into the ground with a shatter of glass and scream of metal.

"Isolate them, I'll look for civilians," Craftsman says, bringing the bike to a stop behind a particularly large chunk of torn-up street.

"On it," I say, already hopping off and warping the area into circles, making mazes of distance and nonsensical directions, creating chaos out of empty space. Another white projectile flies through the air, tearing itself to pieces in the twisted air and undoing the work I put into it. I trace the trajectory of the missile back to the thrower, a black woman with a full-face white mask who's otherwise completely naked, her skin studded with little twinkling points of light. She spins around, one arm suddenly brightening, and I catch the outline of another man behind her, vague and indistinct. "Shaker/Striker looks like he can lift anything and hang onto it without effort. Haven't seen his throwing arm. No idea what's up with the Trump, but she can interact with Othello." That probably means she's capital-D dangerous, throw out the handbook because the rules don't make sense anymore.

"I see bodies by the battlefield!" Craftsman shouts, and my visor pings, directing my gaze to a car tilted on its side. "Three, two adults and one child, lots of blood." I can't make out anything inside the car from this angle. On the other hand, angles can be bent. I _twist_ the air, head aching a little bit as I take a firmer grip than usual, and look inside. The parents are long gone, heads cracked open like watermelons, but the boy only has a cut on his head. He might live if we can pull him out of the warzone.

Another flash of white light streaks across the battlefield, undoing more of my warping around the perimeter. I grit my teeth and start replacing it, trying to keep ahead of the Trump.

"Parents are dead, kid's alive but unreachable if I also want to contain the capes," I say, trying to split my attention five ways and make room for a sixth. "I'm trying but I'm not sure I can make a safe path there in time." I start widening a path along the ground, turning an inch into a corridor, but it's slow going when I'm also trying to keep White Mask and Serendipity from destroying the surrounding city with a poorly-thrown car.

Then something red and gold blurs out of the sky and onto the street, followed by a sonic _boom_ that rattles windows and raises a cloud of dust that obscures the battlefield. The sound of metal, powers, and chaos stops for a moment as everyone waits to get eyes on the new arrival.

Crimson light lances through the dust cloud, reaching out to slam into White Mask and send him flying on a corkscrew trajectory through the twisted space. A shield of light forms in front of the naked woman to block a second beam, and Serendipity manages to barely avoid getting hit himself, the laser curving around him as his energy redirection field keeps him safe. The laser keeps tracking him though, forcing the Brute to keep running or get tagged. More blasts converge on the Trump, more shields pop up to block each beam, pinning her in place until something gives and they all shut down at once, multiple lights going out under her skin as no fewer than five blasts connect with her. She spasms twice, then falls over, unmoving save for the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

I blink at the brief and violent barrage of light.

Then I smile.

"Kid Win on the scene, Vista refocusing on civilian rescue," I say, abandoning my focus on the perimeter to redouble my efforts on reaching the kid. Without having to split my attention five ways I get there inside of fifteen seconds and promptly start extracting the child from his harness. "Good to have you here."

The dust has settled enough that I can make out Chris standing tall amongst the chaos. Nowadays he wears a suit of crimson and gold power armor with tinkertech attachments and a dozen different guns floating around him, all of which are now slowly coming to bear on an Serendipity and an empty patch of space. A pair of truly massive jet engines slowly unfold into terrifying-looking cannons, one pointed at each Ambassador.

"Let's stop fighting one another and wait for the PRT agents to arrive," Chris says aloud, looking first to Serendipity, then to the empty space. He pulls a pistol that looks like it's all barrel from his belt and points it roughly in the right direction. "I'm not sure if I can hit you when you're not in this dimension, but I'm also pretty sure that if I can it won't be with anything not rated for Brutes. And I have a lot guns to try." A fellow in a simple black and white mask pops into place where Chris is aiming, looking remarkably calm for someone who just got captured.

A single slim tube detaches itself from Chris's armor to float up to me, where it shines blue for two seconds then moves to hover over the head of the child I'm holding. It promptly unfolds into a spider-like robot and starts working on the gash, a tiny laser vaporizing the excess blood even as a pair of thinner appendages suture the cut shut and a third sprays an aerosol of some sort over the wound.

"Situation under control," Chris says over the radio. "And my name is Valiance, not Kid Win."

* * *

"How's New York?" I ask, following up the question with a sip of coffee, savoring the bitterness. The PRT cafeteria tends to use boiling water in their machines, which burns the beans and makes the drink taste far more ashy than it should. On the other hand, it's free, and I like the bite. Plus, you can order a box and start chugging it immediately and no one will look at you funny.

"Busy," Chris replies, shaking his head as he stares into his chai. We picked up drinks and went to the Wards break room, which is mercifully empty. School day and all that. "Really busy. You know how Brockton Bay had a Nazi problem?" he asks, lifting his head to look me in the eye. His have picked up little brown flecks in the irises. I wonder if that's from a fight?

"Yeah," I say, raking my eyes over the rest of him. He's grown up. A lot. His shirt strains at the shoulder and at the sleeves, and he has some brown stubble on his chin that he keeps rubbing absentmindedly.

"Well, they moved to New York," he says, shaking his head, apparently unaware or uncaring of the once-over I just gave him. "And the thing is, they aren't even the biggest problem. You have some villainous Myrddin knock-offs with the firepower to make them something other than a joke, an eco-terrorist who runs a cult and makes the area around them a poisonous glade until they leave, the most professionally irritating branch of the Elite that's going to go through a power struggle as soon as its leader finally kicks the bucket, the Teeth coming by every few months to wreck house for as long as it takes for someone to come up with a counter to the latest Butcher..."

Chris lets out a long breath, slowly shaking his head. "More than one parahuman per ten city blocks. More than two dozen villainous organizations with more than ten powered members. At least fifty, maybe as many as a hundred parahumans who can level buildings without slowing down. And the Protectorate is outnumbered _badly_ ," he finishes, leaning back in his chair, drink forgotten.

"You seem to be doing alright," I comment dryly, hiding my smile behind my cup. "You found the time to come here, after all."

"Mandatory leave," Chris replies, waving his hand dismissively at me. "One week of vacation every two months, and rumor has it that if you don't take it, Legend knocks you out and drops you off on a deserted tropical island until someone notices you're missing." I snort at that, nearly spraying coffee out my nose.

"You're joking," I say, ignoring the burning in my nostrils. Chris waggles his hand, still staring at the ceiling.

"Partially. He usually just walks up to you and starts asking questions about your friends and family until you feel too guilty to say no. If _that_ doesn't work, he finds a piece of paperwork that has you asking for a transfer to Department 56. Eventually, he 'realizes' it was filed in error, but by then you're already gone," Chris says. I screw up my face and try to remember that one, then give up.

"Where is Department 56?" I ask. Chris sits back up, looking me in the eye.

"Honolulu," he says, deadpan. "Ask me how I know."

I blink, thinking. Then I feel a smile creep across my face. My shoulders start shaking. Chris sighs, resigned.

"Okay, just do whatever-"

I fall forward, nearly spilling my cup as I laugh, long and high and hard. I fall to my knees, chest aching as I run out of air, one hand still on the table.

"It's not that funny," Chris mutters, sending me into a wheezing fit as I try to get back in my chair. I shake my head.

"So, you got reassigned to Hawaii because you refused to take vacation?" I ask, raising an eyebrow, a few giggles still escaping me.

Chris nods. "I'm going to use it to do some tinkering, look at some of Armsmaster's old designs. See if I can't find a way to figure out what went wrong with the nanothorns."

I do some mental math, then wince. The anniversary was about a week ago. Add in a few days for the paperwork to mysteriously surface, and the result is pretty clear.

"You know, he took breaks," I say, carefully, cautiously. Chris smiles warmly and waves contentedly.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Prime of my life, enjoy myself, best worker is a happy worker, all that jazz," he says, once more staring at the table. "It just felt wrong to take the day off, y'know? That, and his tech is fascinating," Chris adds, shaking his head. "Like, people called him the second-best Tinker in the world, and they weren't wrong. No idea why he left his gear to me," he finishes, thumb rubbing the edge of his cup as his mind departs for somewhere else.

I scoot my chair over, quietly, carefully, until I'm right beside him

Then I punch him in the arm. Hard.

"Ouch!" Chris says, spilling some liquid over his fingers and hissing. "The hell was that for?"

"Chris, you just took out four very different capes in less than a minute," I say flatly. "You did it without destroying the surroundings and after dropping in out of supersonic flight." I shake my head, still looking at him. "Maybe you sucked once, but that's not now. If you knock yourself one more time I'm going to enter us both into an illegal fighting ring just to prove how broken you are."

Chris stares at me for a moment. Then he smiles and gives me a one-armed hug.

"Thanks," he says. His body is soft with a firmness underneath, warm despite the armor and suddenly really, _really_ close. "I needed that."

"No problem," I say, breaking out of the hug with a shrug of one arm and putting on my friend smile. "Happy to be a good support.

Then an idea hits.

"Do you want me to go with you?" I ask. Chris tilts his head, a quizzical expression on his face.

"Umm-"

"To Honolulu," I clarify. "Like, you'll only be there for a week anyway, right?" I fill the air with words, trying to make my wish a reality through sheer force of will. "Boston's in a lull right now with everyone gearing up for the next Endbringer fight. I'm still technically a Ward, so I can basically go whenever I want." Not completely true, but I've got more experience than half the Protectorate here and logged more hours than three of them. They're not going to tell me I can't take a week off in paradise. "I'm not tinkering, but I figure hanging out with an old face shouldn't be too much of a downgrade." I give Chris a smirk, bouncing my leg under the table to release some nervousness.

He rubs his chin thoughtfully, a small scratching sound coming from it. "I was planning on flying there myself, actually. Give the Mark 1's a longer field test and visit Dennis," he says, and I wilt a little before steeling myself.

"I can buy a plane ticket and pack a bag this afternoon," I say dismissively, brushing off the concern. Not like I spend my sweet, sweet minimum wage money anywhere else. "Worst case scenario, we kidnap Dennis and take him with us." The two of us talk at Endbringer fights, but I don't think I've called him in a while. Might be nice to catch up, and he's smart enough to pick up on the cue to back off and let me get some alone time with Chris.

Chris gives me a flat look. "You know what Alexandria does to people who try to pull shit like that?" he asks. "I do. It's not pretty."

I pshaw and flap my hand at him. "Just tinker up some anti-Alexandria tech,. Don't you know? Tinkers are the most powerful capes," I say confidently, nodding twice.

Chris sighs. "You've been reading PHO again, haven't you?" he asks.

I grin. "Did you know that 'came from Brockton' is a meme now? You use it to describe someone or something that's taken far more punishment than should be possible, then proceeds to wipe the floor with all of its competitors. Apparently half the internet is convinced that the honey badger is native to the Bay, what with all the crazy people like you running around."

Chris shakes his head ruefully, a toothy smile on his face. "So, first, I'm about average for a heavy hitter in New York," he clarifies, angling his body towards me as he leaves his drink on the table, the conversation back to a subject he feels comfortable with. "Second, the only reason I got the opportunity to build all this stuff was because I inherited a whole lot of money and tech from a Tinker far better than I am, plus a lot of extra funds from the sudden lack of demand following Leviathan. Ninety percent of the time, Tinkers are just slightly-worse versions of other capes, but with more versatility."

The conversation flows smoothly from there, and we lose ourselves in argument, good cheer, and simple happiness.

* * *

"Three years," Dennis says, holding up his glass of whiskey to the light. "Hard to believe it's been that long." The three of us are seated at the bar of a hotel with a name I can't pronounce in the financial district of LA, closed off by order of Clockblocker, Protectorate Strike Team Leader. A recent promotion, and one he's more than willing to abuse. "They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. So, why do I still feel the same sort of slightly-irritating depression around you two?"

"It's because you suck," I answer bluntly, the gin and tonic I'm not technically supposed to have pleasantly cool against my hand. He's been off-shift as of forty-some minutes ago, but he promised the hotel manager a glowing review if we got the place to ourselves until midnight or whenever we left, whichever came first. Chris dropped a little anti-surveillance tech, we took off our masks, and we've been drinking ever since.

"What Missy means to say is that you're so set in your ways that it would take an act of Scion to make your time-locked heart feel anything more than cold satisfaction," Chris interjects, a little red from his third glass of wine. I don't know where he picked it up, but apparently he's become a bit of a wine snob. I'm willing to forgive it so long as we don't get another rant about the 'nose' of the wine. Whatever that means.

Dennis snorts, a smirk twisting the corner of his mouth. "The first Brockton Bay Wards reunion I attend and this is the abuse I get? Now I know why I don't go to these."

Chris adopts a pensive expression, rubbing his chin. "Actually, where is everyone else? Rory and Roger are in New York with me, but what about Jessie? Robin? Hannah?"

"Sophia caught a flight to Europe, last I checked," I say, pursing my lips as I review my memory. "Pretty sure Robin took a sabbatical and just didn't come back, Hannah's in Houston, and Jessie is up in the Northwest somewhere. Seattle, Portland, that area." When I get a pair of astonished stares from the two boys I shrug. "Only so many things you can check on console duty before you're forced to make your own fun."

"Amen," Dennis says, nodding twice. After looking into his glass, he lifts it up, making eye contact with each of us. "To those absent."

I nod, lifting mine in sync with Chris. "Those absent," I say quietly.

"Those absent," Chris echoes soberly. We all take a long drink, savoring the bite, remembering.

As Endbringer fights and Endbringer losses go, the Protectorate ENE and the Wards branch did pretty well. If the city was still around, chances are we'd only need an extra two or three capes to bring us back up to strength. Compare that to the Empire, who lost more than a third of their roster in the aftermath, including all of their leaders. Compare that to Boston, which needed to be completely remanned from the ground up, with every cape besides the team leaders taking some time off. All two of them.

Compare that to the total group who fought, which had a fifty percent fatality rate. Compare that to the Protectorate as a whole, who lost nearly a third of their total capes, then lost even more to the tide of resignations and temporary leaves of absence. I can still remember the months after when I was given adult-shift hours, when I had to coach fresh triggers twice my age on how to do paperwork and how to fight, how people did their best to ignore my age because there really was no one else for the job.

Leviathan in Brockton Bay was a _bad day_.

Dennis claps, startling the two of us. "Enough sad shit. No more shop talk. Only social stuff. Missy, boyfriend?" he asks, looking me dead in the eye. I sigh, shaking my head sadly.

"Chevalier still isn't returning my calls," I say forlornly, only half sarcastic. "I'll get in touch when I find one willing to move past hand-holding." The real issue is finding a guy that's tall, muscular, in the cape scene already, and also in my age group. In two years I'll have half a dozen options, but everyone else is either already taken, not interested, or leery about dating a Ward. Even though half of them are barely two years older than I am.

I try not to be too bitter about it.

Dennis nods. "Good. I don't have a shovel speech prepared yet," he says. He turns to Chris. "What about you? Boyfriend?"

Chris tilts his head. "Dennis, I'm a guy," he says, slowly, carefully, compensating for his drink with caution.

"And Legend is a very attractive, very gay man," Dennis says evenly. "I'm comfortable enough with my masculinity to tell you that it's entirely reasonable to find yourself" — he motions ambiguously with one hand — "'reacting' to him."

Chris gently places his wine glass down on the table. "Dennis, I'm straight."

"That's not a no," I say in a sing-song voice, smiling mischievously. Chris gives me a pleading look, and I quickly look away from him, teeth clicking against my glass as I smile around a sip of my drink.

Chris drops his head into his hands. "Why are you guys my friends?" he asks rhetorically.

"Paperwork and location," Dennis answers, leaning across the table to pat him on the shoulder twice. "Now, until I hear evidence to the contrary, I'm going to start trying to set you up with Longshanks. Some people are a little off-put by his Changer form's hairy legs, but I think it might be just the ticket for-"

"A lot of one-night stands and not a lot of repeat performances," Chris says bitterly, draining the rest of his wine glass in one go. "Happy?"

Dennis lets the silence linger, leaving his glass untouched as he looks impassively at Chris. In turn, Chris starts rolling his glass between his fingers, glaring at it like it's personally responsible for his failed romances. I try very hard not to look at either of them.

Eventually I decide the tension is too much and break the silence.

"Their loss," I say, punching Chris in the shoulder, forcing a smile. "Guy like you could get any girl you wanted. Just walk into a bar and ask nicely. None of them could've been that great if you dumped them," I add, rolling my eyes. Who the hell fucks up a shot at a twenty-something guy who's more than fine to look at with a six figure job, superpowers, and a personality straight out of a shoujo manga?

Chris sags in his seat. "They were the ones to break it off. Every. Time."

I hold my glass for a second, then keep drinking, trying to keep the flush off my face. Maybe if I have another three of these I can wash the taste of boot leather out of my mouth.

When Dennis finally speaks, he does so slowly, carefully, as if he's trying to handle a crystal glass with a pair of screwdrivers.

"I didn't mean to hit a sore point," Dennis says. "And I don't think Missy was trying to, either. You're our friend. One we haven't seen in a while, but still a friend. I crossed a line. Missy made an assumption. That one's on us. Sorry?" he asks, leaning forward over the table, arms spread wide, fingers wiggling in my direction. After a second I realize he's asking me to help, so I stand up to and _pull_ the space tight enough to allow for a proper group hug.

Chris sighs, but he stands up too. We huddle for a second, three people with powers being a little less alone.

Then the second's gone and things get weird.

"Anyway," Dennis says, breaking the hug and sitting back down, cueing Chris and I to sit as well. "You want to complain about it?"

"Ugh," he starts, shaking his head. "Where should I begin?"

* * *

Eventually, Dennis gets tired of drinking, Chris's armor tells him that it will lock itself still if his BAC gets any higher, and I accidentally warp a bottle of something very expensive in half during an attempt to make it pour itself.

"Okay, reunion over," Dennis says, hauling himself up. "I'm going to go back to the station and await the hangover." He walks towards the door, remarkably controlled, then pauses, turning back. "Missy."

"Yeah?" I say, nodding twice and looking at the lights. They've gotten a little shinier since I started drinking, and now I'm wondering how difficult it would be to warp light into fancy patterns. Probably really hard.

"Can I get a few words?" he asks. "Without Chris," he clarifies, looking at the man in question, who nods and lifts his hands in surrender.

"Heading to the barracks for some sleep and repair work," Chris says, floating towards the door, helmet deploying around his face. "Don't talk too much shit behind my back," he says in a slightly metallic tone.

"Only when you're around," Dennis jeers.

Once the doors close on Chris, Dennis turns to me, concern etched into his face. "You've gotten better at hiding interest. Not perfect though."

I wince. "That obvious?" Ugh, if Chris noticed...

Dennis shakes his head, reaching behind the bar and pulling out two bottles of water. "Nah. I'm just perceptive." He tosses one to me and I warp space to make it fall into my hand. I still almost don't catch it, but that's mostly because of my drunken butterfingers. "Anyway, you know what I picked up from our little talk about Chris's love life?"

"What?" I ask, twisting off the top of the bottle and taking a quick sip. Drinking makes you dehydrated. Well, drinking alcohol. Who knew?

"He'd make a terrible partner," Dennis says. I give him a look, and he shrugs. "I love him to death, but it's true. You check when the break-ups happen? Why he can't make it to a second lay? It's because he's busy tinkering, busy building, busy with work. Maybe it's different for Tinkers, but I can blow a lot of that shit off for a night with Eliza." His hand goes to his chest unconsciously, touching something beneath his armor. "If Chris can't, that means he doesn't care about them as much as he cares about his job. That's not a bad thing," he clarifies. "Lots of people like that. It's just something to know about if you want to date him."

"Who said anything about dating?" I ask playfully, but my heart's not in it, and I hide just how much his warning hurts with a sip of water.

"He did," Dennis says. "He wants a girl who he'd skip work for. Problem is, he likes work a lot." Dennis shakes his head as he picks up his helmet with one hand and holds it up, looking me pointedly in the eye. "See this? This is Clockblocker. He's like Dennis, but he's _not_. He stays at work while Dennis is home, and he's not allowed in the house unless there's an emergency. I don't let myself forget the difference. Chris?" Dennis says, slipping his helmet back on. "I don't think he sees the line between himself and Valiance."

I open my mouth to deny it, pause, then close it silently.

People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

"But if you think you can make it work, do it," Dennis says, aborting my pity party and giving me a thumbs up. "At least if it's him I don't have to give anyone a talk." His posture straightens, a bit of cheer entering his voice. "Anyway, my bed calls. See you later."

The door closes like a guillotine, leaving me alone.

For a while I just sit there, thinking. About Chris, about what few patterns of behavior I've been able to pick up, and about whether they're actually problems. He didn't call any of us outside of Endbringer fights, but neither did I. Can't really blame him for that, either, what with the rebuilding of the Protectorate and all. He didn't mention any non-work friends, but that might be a cape thing more than anything else. It's not like I know anyone outside of the office that well. Other than those two things really, he's actually quite the catch.

I growl, dropping my head into my hands. Or maybe I'm just so deep in denial that I don't want to admit that his problems are my problems and I have a thing for built men. All of the 'bad partner' flags Chris has stick to me as well, and negatives don't cancel out when you combine them. He's got commitment issues, I've got the same issues flipped around, and it's a recipe for disaster. This is all without the problems of dating in the company.

No one in the PRT or the Protectorate has ever said that you shouldn't sleep with your teammates. Well, no one's said it and gone anywhere other than to oversee a Quarantine Zone. It is, however, _strongly recommended_ that you try everything short of prostitutes before you decide to start banging a person you might need to take a bullet for after a rough split. Bad breakups hurt the entire team, and whoever said 'better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all' clearly hasn't been on the receiving end of a heartbroken pyrokinetic.

God, that was a rough week.

I shake my head. More fucking procrastinating. Woman the fuck up, me.

Do I like Chris? Maybe. Do I think I can handle the fallout if it goes bad? Probably.

There. That's what matters.

I push myself up to standing, powering through the sway in the world as I snag my helmet off the table and put it back on. Priorities first, go after them, figure out the details as I go along. Maybe it's not delicate. Maybe it's not a good idea. But I'm not going to tiptoe around the idea of it for another three fucking years.

I push through the double doors, mentally mapping out the fastest route to the nearest PRT building. It's late and I'll need some sleep if I want to catch a flight to Honolulu on short notice.


	52. Post Mortem I

"Shielder's thinking about joining another team," Vicky says, looking out of our apartment window with a firmly neutral expression in place. It's a beautiful day, perfect for going out, but she asked to eat in. Now I know why.

I pause, fork of steak-filled mac'n'cheese halfway to my mouth, thinking. Then I shrug and bite down. "He's already got a team," I say, the words muffled by the food. "Someone trying to snipe him?"

"Ames, chew with your mouth closed," Vicky says, making a face in disgust. "No one wants to see that. And no. He just started asking about what would happen if he decided to join up with Flashpoint."

I roll my eyes and swallow. "No can do. I have a reputation to maintain. Also, why? " I ask, tilting my head. Sure, New Wave doesn't pay great, but it has a pretty absurd medical package. That, and Flashpoint isn't exactly a big name. Like, I could understand if someone like First Current or Skybreak sent him an invite, but if he had gotten one of those he'd be shouting it from the rooftops.

"Eric's tired of 'listening to his Dad all the time' and 'wants to get out on the front lines,'" Vicky says, adding the air quotes as she turns back to me, lips set and eyes dead. "So, basically he doesn't want to go to college in the fall and wants away from home."

I nod solemnly, taking another bite of food. Mmm, beef in milk. Such a delicious cruelty. "Yes on the former, no on the latter. He shouldn't leave us because we're his family, not because he doesn't want to go to more school."

Vicky drops her head into her hands. "Ames, not everyone's power gives them a seven figure income. He's going to need a day job, and for that he'd going to need a degree. Besides," she adds, looking up at me. "College isn't just for money. You also learn soft skills, like how to read, how to talk to people, how to build a coherent argument, all sorts of valuable things." I sigh, put down my fork, and look Vicky dead in the eye.

"I'm not going to college," I say. "I don't like dealing with fans when I'm trying to work, I don't like doing things I don't want to do, and I'm not going to have the time to work at the hospital and attend classes." We've been having this argument at least once every few months ever since Vicky enrolled, and even with the gaps between each iteration growing larger it's still a pain.

Vicky sighs. "I'm not saying you have to do what I do. What a regular student does. Just sit in on a lecture?" she asks, eyes softening. "I know you already have a job. I know you're happy with where you are. I just," she fumbles for words before giving up and reaching across the table for my hand. "I just want to make sure my sister is going to be okay."

I roll my eyes but reach out to meet Vicky halfway anyway, giving her hand a waggle. "Yeah, yeah, mush mush something something eternal familial love." The words aren't barbed though, and I give Vicky a quick smile. "Still not going to do it, but you can keep asking."

"See, saying things like that makes me doubt the familial love bit," Vicky says, letting go of my hand and leaning back in her chair. "But if I can't appeal to familial love, I guess I'll just have to seduce you," she adds, smirking a little as she leans forward, arms coming under her chest to show off her rather pretty eyes.

I wince, keeping my gaze firmly locked onto her actual eyes. "Vicky, too soon," I say as a small shudder passes through me. "It will always be too soon." Vicky shakes her head apologetically as she sits back up, a little more subdued but still focused.

"Right, forgot. Sorry about that." She sighs. "I just keep thinking about a certain someone who comes over every week, kicks Dean and I out of the apartment for the night, and makes you a _lot_ happier for the next few days..." Vicky trails off, eyeing me meaningfully. I meet her gaze coolly.

"She's a professional escort named Flora Blanca who I pay to throw me to the floor and have me any way she pleases," I say flatly. "Sometimes we switch things around and I cut up my genitals and graft a dick to my groin so I can-"

"Ew ew ew _stop!_ " Vicky says, sticking out her tongue and waving her hands in front of my face. "Why would you even say that? Ugh, I need to bleach that image from my mind."

"Fuck with the best, get fucked like the rest," I say primly, dabbing at my lips with a paper napkin. "That, and you have only yourself to blame. Please don't bring it up again," I say more quietly. I love Vicky to death, but the incest thoughts of yesteryear are not joke material. Not now, maybe not ever.

Vicky nods. "Sorry about that. But seriously, what about Taylor? Wouldn't you like to be able to 'talk shop' with her?" she asks, raising an eyebrow and sipping her water. "Woo her with Shakespearean sonnets and ancient lyric, bring her to her knees with the rhythm of your words. Don't you think it might be nice to show some interest in your girlfriend's hobbies?"

I sigh. "Vicky. It's not happening," I state. "I have a job. I understand what I want and need. I'm not going to stress myself out, spend a ton of cash, and lose way too much of my free time pursuing a degree I'm not going to use because it's the thing that's in right now. Taylor knows that," I say, a goofy grin sliding across my face. "She knows and she doesn't care."

"Earth to Ames," Vicky says. I blink, dropping out of my happy haze, and see Vicky smiling. "She really makes you happy, doesn't she?" she says. I nod, going back to my food.

"Yeah. She really does."

* * *

After Rose killed Spree, she was going to be on the Teeth's shit list forever. That was never really in question, and since they're only ever in Boston for two or three months at a time it's usually not an issue. When it is, Rose takes a trip out of town. Easier than getting into a cape fight every week, and it also gives her an excuse to travel around and meet other artists. It's one of the (many) reasons she doesn't do long-term contracts in Boston, just in case she gets a heads up and has to get out of town.

Sometimes we don't get that warning, though.

"Get clear!" Rose shouts, stepping between me and a hail of automatic fire, a half dome of bone expanding rapidly from her arm to shield both of us, the barrier rattling like a wooden roof in a hurricane as the garden around us gets destroyed by the fusillade. "I can't fight them and keep you safe at the same time!"

"I'd love to, but I can't outrun bullets!" I snap as I try to imagine a map of the park we're at in my head. I can handle a few normal gangbangers armed with knives and pipes. A low Brute rating from being in literally perfect condition and a few years of martial arts training is a surprisingly good defense against generic thugs. Capes are usually scarier than me in a straight up fight, but against them all I have to do is buy enough time for one of the two high-rated Movers I know to respond to my distress call.

Thugs with automatic weapons, who know how to aim, backed up by a parahuman who knows what they're doing? Way out of my weight class.

"Come on out, cunt munchers!" a voice screams, accompanied by a metallic hissing sound. Taylor jerks her arm back, dome remaining solid and separate. A moment later it shudders, a horrible grinding noise coming from it as it starts dissolving into dust, invisible saws tearing into it and slowly wearing away our cover.

"Climb on," Rose mutters, kneeling down next to me. I wordlessly scramble onto her, arms around her neck and legs in her hands. Bone crawls over me, thick enough and heavy enough to stop a bullet, and Rose assumes a runner's stance. "ETA on Vicky?" she asks.

"She said three minutes," I say, looking up. "That was two minutes ago."

The shield shudders one more time, cracking ominously, and Rose starts running, legs working in tandem with limbs of bone so numerous I can't keep track of them all, spraying flak all around us as we tear up dirt and dash through flower beds. I tighten my arms as the gunfire starts up again, bullets whizzing past us like the most dangerous hornets of all time. They're shooting short, controlled bursts, the kind that are actually accurate and not just a great way to kill a crowd of people. It means that we're not just dealing with rank and file idiots.

I feel an impact on my lower right side, a bit of blunt force trauma that completely knocks the air out of me. Stings like a bitch, but I've been shot before. This feels more like a baseball bat than a bullet, painful but definitely not fatal.

A blast of fuckme/fuckyou hits me, and judging by the sudden shock of spikes on Taylor's shoulders she feels it too. I look up just in time to see Vicky drop out of the sky, bullets screaming in behind her. She stops just short of the ground, firmly in cover behind a fountain and wearing her serious face, the furrowed brows sharply at odds with the cheerful yellow sundress she's wearing. Rose promptly angles our mad dash towards her, sliding into relative safely behind the structure. Another metallic hissing sound starts and the stone begins shuddering.

"Rasp, a Blaster/Shaker who can destroy up to half of whatever she hits with those blasts of hers," Vicky says, words spilling from her lips thick and fast as she gives us both a quick once-over. Rose shatters the armor off of me, one hand going to my side, but I bat it away, shaking my head and giving her a look. "Doesn't shoot fast and she can only have one shot active at a time, but it destroys anything and everything," Victoria finishes. "Game plan is to get Ames out of here and wait for backup."

"Agreed," I say before looking to Rose. "You heard about the back up, right?" The Protectorate doesn't have the best response time, but they're also not slow. Definitely not slow enough for Rose to justify fighting a group of top tier mooks and a cape with an offensive ability that breaks anything.

Rose hisses violently, armor transforming away from it's plant theme into something angular and aquatic, like the bones of a fish from the Marianas Trench.

"The Protectorate's more than welcome to take what's left of them in," she growls, peeking over the lip of the fountain at the group of Teeth soldiers who are currently taking cover behind trees as they send potshots our way. I bunch my jaw, wanting to argue, but the fountain's almost half gone already.

We're out of time.

Vicky holds out her arms wordlessly, and I promptly settle into them, bridal-style. We've long since figured out that this is the best way to take advantage of her durability and strength, and PHO doesn't care almost at all anymore. Vicky crouches for a moment, then kicks off the ground, the sudden acceleration making me tear up and close my eyes against the wind pressure.

I still hate flying with Vicky.

A few more angry hornets whizz by but none of them hit either of us. Our angle changes, from straight up to an arc, and eventually Vicky stops moving, coming to stop that feels natural enough that I know she's standing, not floating.

"Nearby rooftop, covered from most lines of fire," she says quickly, putting me down as I rub my eyes clear. "I'm going back to assist." She turns back in the direction of the battle and floats up into the air, rapidly disappearing into the sky. I suppress a flash of frustration at my lack of agency and head to the edge of the building, looking down at the park-come battlefield.

The gunfire has stopped, and I can see Teeth members slowly moving towards the sad remains of the fountain, water leaking out from half a dozen different holes in the bowl. The cape is a woman dressed in body armor covered with rusty hacksaw blades, hands raised threateningly as her grunts scan the area around her. Rose is nowhere to be seen, and I strain my eyes searching for a flash of white, trying to figure out where she is. If I were a Changer with almost hilariously bad anger problems presented with a group of targets, where would I-

The ground underneath the cape erupts, dirt flying everywhere and sending the thugs stumbling. I see the cape fall forward, body somehow _wrong_ in a way I can't make out from here. I hear shouting and the _poppoppop_ of distant gunfire as the five thugs try to open up on Rose, who's suddenly appeared in the middle of their formation. I'm not sure if she's just shrugging the bullets off or if they're not hitting her, but Rose doesn't stop moving, an impossibly fast twist of sharp edges and points passing near each thug and leaving them writhing on the ground in her wake.

I look at what used to be a pristine garden, one of the few green spaces left in Boston. Now it's torn up, emerald lawns marred by scars of black earth, flower beds jagged and ruined by Rasp's blasts and Rose's flak alike.

I see Vicky descend, slowly and carefully. I think she says something, because Rose gestures at the cape on the ground in front of her, and I see Vicky visibly shudder. I squint at the grounded cape, who's rolling around on the ground, writhing in pain. She still looks wrong, her body too slim to be human. Vicky said Blaster/Shaker, not Changer, so what-

My mouth goes dry as I put the pieces together.

Blaster/Shaker. One with an absolute offense. The Teeth are pretty good at playing dead, and if Rose just knocked her out Rasp could probably escape a lot of different restraints. Rose's solution?

Cut off her arms, then cap them with bone. Can't break out of cuffs if you don't have to wear any, and this way she won't bleed out.

Rose walks up behind Vicky and wraps her arms around her. Shortly after that the two of them fly towards me in a straight line.

I step back from the edge of the roof, tracking the two of them as they move. Once they touchdown, Rose starts walking over to me, her armor once more floral and serene, though still spotted with blood.

"Are you okay?" she asks, a hand extended towards me, halting, hesitant. I look at it, then up at her. "I felt your armor get hit," she clarifies, stepping forward into arms reach. "I didn't feel it shatter, but I don't want to take chances. Ames, are you okay?" she asks, deadly serious.

I think about it. Five people are bleeding behind her. Five people are bleeding, one is going to be permanently crippled without parahuman assistance, and Rose is worried about a hit that she knows didn't actually land.

I force a smile and bop her on the head. "Rose, I'm an honorary doctor," I say, the words coming out a little higher pitched than I wanted. "I'm good. Now then, let's go talk to the white hats about what happened," I say, pointing back towards the park. There aren't any PRT trucks there yet, but it's only a matter of time. That, and leaving a bunch of bleeding thugs unsupervised is probably a bad idea.

This time I fly back with Rose, her wings more than enough to get us across the empty sky. As we glide, I think about the potential fallout of this situation. Rose is going to get off scot free for the mooks, and since Rasp attacked first Rose could probably argue that using sub-lethal force alone was more than she deserved. Sure, there will be some hard statements made, but at the end of the day disarming a woman is basically just going to be a thing Rose did, and everyone is going to move on.

I mean, it makes sense. Rose pays taxes, doesn't commit crimes unless provoked, and the ones she does commit are basically excused by the extenuating circumstance of 'powers.' Making a big deal of this, trying to get her to seriously tone back the amount of force she uses, especially against the Teeth, would be both a waste of time and send the wrong message to all the other law-abiding capes.

I see the logic of the PRT, but that doesn't change the absolute action that Rose did. She mutilated a woman not because it was the only option, but because it was the most expedient. The one that cost Rose herself the least. I don't even think Rose thinks she's in the wrong here, or that the level of violence she personally considers acceptable is leagues further than most people be willing to go. I don't think she realizes that she didn't have to kill Spree, that the ensuing feud between her and the Teeth isn't normal or okay.

Rose just sees someone trying to hurt what is hers, and stabs whatever the threat is until it stops doing that.

It's probably a good thing that Taylor isn't a hero.

* * *

I yawn, kicking down the stand for my bike and dismounting in two somewhat sloppy motions. I get oddly tired whenever I get sent off shift early, but drinking coffee past one keeps me up too late so really I just need to find something to be busy with.

"Hello, and welcome to .e," the hostess says. She's dressed in a black button up and slacks, both embroidered with white vines curling around the limbs, and a bone daffodil pokes out over her left ear. "Might I ask what you're here for?" she says tentatively, smiling cautiously. I scan the room and see the sign for the White Rose autograph schedule. Last one was at two fifteen and it's nearly three now, so I've just missed her. She's probably working on a commision or something, which means that she needs some alone time.

"I'll have a private room, a margherita sandwich, and tell Rose that Amy's waiting for her," I say, returning the smile and giving her a small wave. "No need to guide me, I know my own way up," I add as I step towards the back of the shop.

The rogue life has been good to Rose. After establishing herself as an artist in her own right, she started searching for talent, for people she could use to get to the next level of exclusivity, scouting everyone from professional oil painters with classical educations and resumes as long as my arm to grad students fresh out of school, looking to make it big on their first gig. Most were either idiots, not the right fit, or didn't want to give up their current positions to work with her. A few stayed though, and as the money started rolling in Rose started getting a reputation as a talent magnet. Then she decided to diversify.

Now I have to slip between half a dozen elegant white tables topped by glass with bone flowers suspended within, each seating a customer and a sales person. The walls are positively covered with artwork, everything from Rose's sculptures to paper and pencil sketches, all nominally under the theme of 'flowers.' The rack of blooms ("Made fresh daily, never exactly the same twice!") is already empty, and I shake my head as I push open the door to the stairs. I do the mental math. The government taxes the hell out of parahuman products, but Rose just sold probably not even half an hour's work for upwards of a few thousand dollars. Sure, market saturation is a thing, and when tourist season dies down she'll be back to waiting for people to ask for commissions, but still.

It's a lot of money.

One flight of stairs later and I'm faced with a corridor, five doors set into the hallway. Rose tends to reserve these for capes who want to meet in their civ ID's, but large businesses also hold meetings in them from time to time. In general, it's far more expensive than a similar quality rendezvous elsewhere, but she's also famous for not letting people mess with her customers. Short of getting an escort from the Protectorate, it's one of the most secure meetings people can organize.

I push into the first right hand door, a small, lightly decorated room with a dark wood table and a pair of comfortable-looking chairs. I pull the closest out, settle down, and whip out my phone, scrolling through PHO as I wait.

About halfway through a Brazier/Bandersnatch shipfic (a Protectorate/cannibal villain pairing from Chicago that's surprisingly popular given the serial-killer nature of the latter) I hear a buzz from the door. "Come on in," I shout, dropping my phone into its pocket in my robes as I turn around in my chair.

Rose walks in dressed in her 'work' uniform of leaf-patterned armor and skull mask, a pair of mirrored lenses curling around the side of her head to present an inhuman visage.

She's also carrying a plate with my sandwich.

"What do I have to do to get that food?" I ask seductively, looking her dead in the mask.

Rose sighs, placing the plate gently in front of me as she walks by, settling into the chair across from me. "Nothing," she says flatly. "You ordered it and the staff have standing orders that heroes eat free."

"Free, you say?" I ask, picking up the melt and biting into it. Mmm, cheese and vegetables.

"Only the first plate," she warns, more frosty than usual. "Don't push it." I stop chewing and look at her.

Rose is leaning forward on the table, head lolling and limbs stiff in a way that tells me she's using her power to hold herself up. That she's refusing to fall, even when all she wants to do is lay down and rest.

I put the sandwich down. "Rose, what's wrong?"

Rose sighs, staring a hole in the table. "I saw Emma today."

I stare. Speechless.

Taylor crosses her arms, shifting her gaze from the table to the ceiling. "Emma Barnes. The one who made me trigger." She delivers the words without rancor. Without fear. Without any sort of emotion, really. "The one who I basically haven't thought about outside my sessions with Dave in I-don't-know how long. She just walked into the shop, bubbly, laughing, cheery as can be. I kept signing papers, books, journals, whatever, but I also didn't stop looking at her out of the corner of my eye. She was walking with some guy, no idea who, built like a house. A boyfriend, I think. They were talking about some professor, some class, just regular college stuff." Taylor shakes her head. "I kept watching her, and as she was browsing through the aisles I realized I could kill her. An accident, a sphere slipping off a shelf onto her neck, a jagged side suddenly appearing in the right place and-" she cuts herself off, shaking her head. "I could've killed her, and I didn't."

After a moment, I ask, "Why not?"

Taylor looks off to the side, mask infuriatingly unreadable. "Even if I didn't get caught, it wouldn't be worth the legal trouble, the bad publicity, the effort of cleaning the blood off the tiles, the hit to sales from having a dead body in my store, any of it. Emma was a horrible person. Might still be. She's not my problem, though," Taylor says, and there's a quaver in her voice that tells me that saying that cost her something. "I have bigger concerns, bigger worries, than getting back at a girl who makes no sense to me. What would be the point?" Taylor looks back at me, mask sinking beneath her skin, revealing her face. "I just couldn't bring myself to care enough about revenge."

I look at her for a long moment.

Taylor wasn't the most attractive girl when we first met, and I don't think she'd've disagreed back then, either. Small breasts, stick limbs, a mouth outsized for her face, a laundry list of 'just wait to grow up' features. Even now her mouth is a little large for her face, her chest and hips a little too slim to be conventionally attractive. What she has going for her now though is an odd sort of youth, a cleanness to her skin that airbrushed models wish they could fake. I'm not sure how much of it is good genetics and how much is her power constantly healing her outer layers back to perfect health whenever she gets deep into a fight, but it's better than anything I've seen outside of a Tinker's workshop.

She's also grown confident. Not the awkward sort of arrogance that low-tier Brutes often develop, but the confidence of someone who has a job and knows how to do it. I see it in the older doctors, the ones who've had a patient die because of their decision, even if they made the the right one at the time, and in the capes who've been in the game for long enough to know how to bite off exactly as much as they can chew and no more. It gives her a presence, a personal gravitational field that draws in anyone fascinated by people, inescapable as the scent of pollen in a greenhouse.

Right now, she doesn't look shaken. She doesn't look like she's just seen one of the worst people I've ever had the misfortune to hear about, who gave her quite literally the worst day of her life, and let her go without so much as a muttered word. She doesn't look half as angry as I am, relaxing back in her chair while I'm bouncing my leg in an attempt to burn off even a tiny part of the furious energy in my body.

She just looks tired.

I get up, slowly, and pad across the room. Taylor looks up, clear-eyed and curious. I stand next to her, looking down. She raises an eyebrow, still armored save for her head.

"Yes?" she asks. I roll my eyes and turn around, dropping into her lap and eliciting a yelp of surprise, taking the impact of bone on the back of my thighs silently. I lean into her, moulding into the armor, and I feel it thinning in response. I hum contentedly as her arms slip around me, a warmth that we usually reserve for behind closed doors.

"Let's have sex tonight," I say.

* * *

The text was short. Just three words.

 _i need you_

Taylor is _anal_ about English. She was like that before she started college, and it only got worse when she started actually writing. Nowadays I can't even say 'ain't' without getting a pair of narrowed eyes. She's even put a jar in her kitchen labeled 'Abuse of the English Language' and tries to fine anyone who doesn't words good in her earshot. I've played along, but Vicky straight-up refuses to eat dinner at her apartment, scared off by the housewarming party where the ten people invited collectively paid a month's rent. Since she's nowhere near as hard up as before, it's used as a 'Tay wants a new book' fund, complete with a hit list taped to the side.

If she misses a capital, some bad shit has happened.

That's why I broke three speeding laws, ran seven lights, and nearly murdered more pedestrians than I want to count driving across town in the middle of my shift. Why I didn't bother to park my bike properly and left it for whichever meter maid is brave enough to ticket Isidis. Why I take the stairs and sprint up all twelve floors because the elevators aren't going to be fast enough.

I knock three times on the door, restraining myself, resisting the urge to pound at it until the wood gives away. I take three deep breaths, trying to get myself under control, trying to pretend like I haven't panicked, like I'm not desperate to get inside and make sure that the one good thing that I rely on to get through the roughest-

"It's unlocked."

I slowly push open the door, heart in my throat. "Hey you," I whisper, slipping off my shoes. The lights are off and the blinds are drawn, but the glow from the hallway streams in from behind me, providing just enough illumination to make out the outlines of a lot of vines, thorned and angry, tangling through the room. "Rough day?" I'm flying blind here. Rose gets stabby when she's angry, Taylor gets morose, and Tay breaks down. Not sure which one I'm dealing with yet.

"You could say that," Taylor says quietly, fury seeping out of each syllable. The vines rustle as they shift around, indistinct motion in the darkness. Rose for now then.

I nod, slowly stepping forward past the threshold. "Do you want to talk?" I ask, equally quiet. Give ground, make her feel in control. I feel lighter vines below my feet, soft, flexible, and terrifyingly dangerous. The door closes behind me, locking shut, leaving me alone in the dark. I feel something nudge into my right hand, then slide between my fingers, a blood-warm squeeze of my hands. Probably not her real hand, but the gesture is there.

"Yes," Taylor answers. The bone wrapping my hand tugs lightly towards the bedroom and I follow it, muscle memory and trust substituting for sight, the mesh receding away from my feet. Something clicks as I walk forward, and a slight air pressure change brushing across my skin tells me that I've stepped through a doorway. Another click and the faint breeze stops.

I can see the room in my head. Blackout curtains on the windows, a dresser against the far wall with a small wardrobe next to it, both little more than three quarters of the way full. A different box, one we keep locked most of the time, sits at the foot of the bed. The bed's a simple thing, large enough for two people and plenty of space, covered in skull and crossbone sheets we got her as a joke that somehow stuck and an eclectic collection of pillows and blankets.

I can't see any of that now. Just black.

Being blind is not a Rose thing.

I get guided to the side of the bed, slowly sitting down onto the mattress. The bone in my hand recedes, sinking into something until I feel bare skin. _Her_ bare skin. Normally, humans have calluses, creases, something to interrupt you as you run your hands along them. Not Taylor. Her hands are smoother than a child's, softer than an infant's, but with toned muscle rather than rolls of fat underneath. It's literally unlike anyone else I've ever met and never fails to fascinate me.

I start caressing her, tracing small circles on her palm, savoring the touch.

She's shaking.

"Hey, Amy."

I hum. "Hey."

Tay or Taylor, Tay or Taylor?

I'm not sure how long we stay there, my fingers playing with hers, marveling at the feel of them, trying to tell by touch if I need to make a move.

"I fucked up," she says quietly.

Tay it is.

I don't speak. Instead, I drop her hand to my stomach, sliding it to rest under my shirt. Once I'm sure it won't pull away, I peel off my jacket, something that's not quite calm and not quite purpose filling me.

Tay needs help. Everything else flows from there.

"You know that one indie guy? Swordsong? The one that liked to mutilate gangbangers? He came to work today," Taylor says, still quiet. I toss my shirt towards where the laundry hamper is, then lay down on the bed, shimmying out of my pants. When things get bad at the hospital, Rose is there to provide silent reassurance to Rose goes quiet for too long during an Endbringer fight, Isidis asks for a break. Give and take, one person who we can each trust unconditionally.

"He came to work and told me that if I was going to sit by and watch crime happen, then he'd force me to act. That he'd show me that-" the rest gets cut off by a hiccup. I slowly move across the bed, almost naked, never breaking contact. When Amy needs someone to complain to about family, about Isidis, about anything, Taylor is there. When Taylor needs to rant about college, about her employees, or just silently seethe with another person to witness it, Amy is there. A burden shared is a burden halved, but the other half doesn't get offloaded. It just disappears.

"He tried to fight me. In my shop," Taylor says, monotone and dull. I put my arms around her, one sliding beneath her side and the other under her other arm. "He put a knife to the neck of one of the twins, told me that I couldn't save her if I didn't take action. That I needed to actually go out and hero and fight and make a stand against the gangs tearing the city apart and he said it all with such a smug grin on his face and with such a happy voice that I fucking tore his eyes out!" she shouts, curling forward, rage surging out of her like a wave hitting a stormbreaker. "He tried to walk into _my_ domain and tell _me_ what do like he's some sort of _hot shit_ and had the fucking answers to everything! I've _killed_ more capes than years he's patrolled, and _he_ thinks that I'm _wrong_? _Fuck_ him!" Taylor shouts, hand squeezing mine tight enough to hurt. I can feel the pressure of needles under her skin, of armor, of bone waiting to explode outwards. "I fucking tore his eyes out, cut off his right hand, threw his sorry ass out the front fucking door, and left him for the PRT!"

I let her calm down in my arms, chest and shoulders heaving, still too dark to make anything out, gently caressing her flank, her stomach. Waiting.

When Ames fucks up, Tay is there to give her a punishment. To remind her that only one person gets to punish Ames, and that's Tay, and that's only in very specific situations, and that she has to stop getting stuck in self-destructive loops.

When Tay fucks up, Ames is there to remind her that someone loves her very, very much. To remind her that things are never as bad as she thinks, that this too shall pass, and that there is goodness in the world, no small part of which is due to her personally.

"And the PRT came and told me they needed to talk," she whispers, back to monotone. "They told me that this was too far. That they were worried that my actions would be used by other capes to justify defending their territory more violently. Ames, what do I do?" she asks and this time I can't miss the sobs, the scent of salt wafting off her face as she turns her head to look at me in the dark. "Ames, I fucked up. I went too far and now they're going to take me to court and throw me in prison and that's going to be the end of .e and John will never want to talk to me again and everything's gone to shit, shit, _shit_ -"

I silence her with a kiss. Her mouth opens quickly, easily, instinctively, inviting me in. I oblige, tasting her faint mint toothpaste and so much of her, slightly like sweet tarts without sugar. I quickly lose control of our battle for dominance as a growl works its way up her throat, sending shivers down my spine.

Rose is one of the most dangerous capes in any city she happens to be in. Taylor is too quiet for her own good and stubborn enough to walk on a broken bone for miles. Tay is a mess of pillow-biting eroticisim, self-doubt, and a love so fragile it makes me cry to think about it.

I love it all. All of the unnameable _her_ beside me, consuming me, kissing me. And if a few late-night calls are the price to pay for being in Tay's life, so be it.

After too short a time, Tay gently pulls away, out of breath.

"Ames-"

"No," I whisper, kissing her again, shorter this time, teasing, pulling at her lower lip with my teeth as I lift my head, drawing a hiss from her at the impudence, at the challenge to her authority. "It's going to be okay. I promise." My hands move, one higher, one lower, and Taylor whines, hunted, nervous. It's the good kind of nervous though, one we've both learned after many nights of practice.

"You're working yourself up. Trying to answer the world with bone and fury and nothing else. Listen to me," I whisper into her ear as I feel her warm under my hands, blood rising under her skin as she trembles. "And relax."

* * *

I sigh and drop lower in the tub as the hot water slowly loosens my muscles, trusting Tay to keep my head above water. I hear her shift under me, moving my head to rest against her chest, arms slipping under my breasts. I smile contentedly, rolling my head from side to side, enjoying the softness behind my head. Tay clicks her tongue.

"Stop that," Tay says, and I can hear the blush in her voice.

I make a show of mulling it over before dropping my head to the side, cheek resting against a rather firm nub. "Make me," I tease, eyes closed, waiting for a reaction. Taylor's usually not good for more than one round, but that 'usually' has been becoming less usual as time goes on.

"I just did," Tay says, amusement seeping into her voice. "You can ask for more later." Damn. One more attempt to extend the fun?

"What if I want more now?" I ask, dropping some purr into my voice as I tilt my head up at her, putting on my bedroom eyes.

Tay looks back down, expression falling. "Ames," she says quietly and my growing heat subsides as shame takes its place. "Rules."

"Sorry," I say, turning away, trying to hide the regret in my voice. Ask once, then not again. One of the few things that I forget from time to time. After a moment, Tay's free hand starts tracing patterns on my thigh, light and soothing. Forgiveness.

"So am I," Tay says, still quiet. "I know you can go harder. That you want to. I just... can't."

"It's alright," I say, one hand going down to find hers, lacing our fingers together. "When you're ready." I feel a slight pressure on my head, hear the subtle smack of lips, and we go back to soaking.

It took a while for Tay to get comfortable enough to talk about sex. Longer still for her to try anything on the 'spicier' side of things, and by the time we zeroed in on what she did and didn't want to do I was about a day away from taking up one of the nurses on her standing offer. On New Year's Eve though, things finally came together.

Our first time was weird. That's the best way I can put it. Second time, too. Tay's into muscles, and it took a while to make sure that she was also into girls. For those first few nights, it was a matter of learning what she enjoyed. There were a lot of embarrassing moments, a lot of failed experiments. Once we started figuring things out though...

Something clasps around my hands, firm and unyielding, and I look down. Tay's caught them, holding them inside the water, only a few inches away from satisfaction. "You're thinking dirty thoughts again," she whispers, close enough to my ear that I feel her breath, and I feel a little spark of jittery energy shoot down my spine. "Stop that." God, I love it when she whispers and I can't see her.

"Yes ma'am," I reply, tense with anticipation. Slowly, Taylor guides my hands to the bottles of hair care product resting on the floor beside the tub.

"Shampoo time," she says, easing me up, a smile in her voice, this time innocent rather than sultry. I sigh, disappointed and defeated, then obediently sit up. Our limbs slide against each other, water shifting and sometimes spilling out of the tub as we switch positions, Tay's rear between my legs and her head decidedly higher on my chest than mine was on hers. I squirt out a generous amount of shampoo and begin the long, arduous process of treating Tay's hair.

For a while we relax, my hands falling into old patterns and motions. I secretly shoot the clock on the counter a look. Eleven. Too late for Tay to go back home. She'll be spending the night here again, then. Not that I mind. Pushing back the awkward conversation in front of the door is never a bad thing

My fingers slow as I think about the morning. The uncomfortable sort-of conversations we have at the door, the unspoken question of seeing one another again, always just shy of certain. Finding excuses to stay, a forgotten garment, one that was supposed to be here anyway but maybe Tay should take it back, anything for a few more moments.

My fingers stop. A girl living with the Dallon sisters. If she's not a cape, no one is. A risk to her identity, one that she might not take. Asking jeopardizes everything we have, and gains what? My girlfriend here every night, here to kiss, to speak to, to laugh with, to read with. I'd get to listen to her wax poetic about English in a way that I don't understand but love to hear, a mysterious smile or an exasperated eye roll only just a pun away, the aching loneliness of an empty apartment a little less omnipresent when Vicky goes out on a date night with Dean because maybe I can have my own date night without planning it weeks in advance...

"Ames?" Tay asks, a note of worry creeping into her voice.

"You should move in," I say casually, staring at the peach-tiled wall. Taylor stiffens under my fingers, jerking a little. I add a little pressure to her hair, easing her head back down. "I mean, you don't have to, but think about it. The commute back to your place is a pain, we're not that much farther from your shop, and I'm pretty sure splitting rent three ways would be cheaper than leasing a place yourself," I clarify, heart beating hard enough that I'm sure Tay can hear it. "It could also mean more stuff like this, but if you don't want to that's also cool. Just a little more time together, a little less travel, and a bit more-"

"Ames," Tay says, stopping me. I drop my head. Tay's looking up at me, a small smile on her face.

"If Vicky's okay with it, I'd be happy to," she says, and I feel her hand on my knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Oh," I say in a soft voice, facts and emotional appeals and appeals to security slipping from my mind. "Alright then."

That was easy.

I feel something giddy bubble up inside.

"Good," Tay says, looking forward again. After a moment, she looks up. "Fingers?" she asks and I realize my hands are frozen still.

"Right," I say, going back to massaging Tay's scalp, spacing out a little as I think about the weight of her words.

Tay's moving in. I know that Vicky's planning on moving out at some point to live with Dean, that sharing a place is a thing a lot of couples do. It's also a thing a lot of capes do, because chancing your civ ID with a random roommate is a terrible idea. This isn't that unusual.

Tay's moving in. On the one hand, this might mean more sex. It's definitely going to mean more dates, cuddles, and contact. She still has college and .e, I still have work, and we both have caping, but still. More time in proximity can't be a bad thing. On the other hand, it could also mean less sex, less drive to make the most out of the hours we can steal together. Vicky might get a little more aggressive with securing her own private time. Mental note: convince Vicky to move in with Dean sooner.

Tay's moving in. I feel my fingers pause again.

I'm going to need to change some things.

Laundry. All of it needs to be washed, and I need to start doing it at least twice as frequently, cleaning too. I need to learn how to cook so Tay doesn't end up making everything, wean myself off take-out (and even if I don't, I also need to tell them to start leaving stuff at the door), get some domino masks to scatter around the house for just-in-case situations-

"Ames," Tay says. I start, registering the green eyes staring into mine. I lean back a little, a nervous smile coming to my face.

"Yeah?" I whisper.

"Relax," she says, leaning in for a kiss.


	53. Post Mortem: Author

Holy fuckballs, this story got long.

Would you believe that I set out with the intent to write 50k-75k words? That we were going to cleave even more closely to canon, that Danny was going to pursue legal action against the Barnes's, that Taylor and Clockblocker were going to catch Levi in a cage of bone, or that Tay was going to find out Sophia's civ ID? That Eidolon wasn't going to figure out his shard-eating power, that the story was going to delve into post-Levi Bay with no clear end point, and just in general end up as a haphazard story without any real meaning.

Also, holy fuckballs this got big.

So, you know Ring-Maker? That one LotR/Worm crossover that has over a thousand pages of comments and is a whole lot of fun? That's the bar I'm measuring myself against. Not because it's _the best_ Wormfic (though I enjoy it, Burn Up and Life Bends Down both make me literally stop what I'm doing to read them), but because it features a more-powerful-than-canon Taylor who quickly abandons the rails of canon (with a dash of violence and murder). It's easily the most popular fic currently updating in the fandom and is one of the stories I read consistently. That has 1k likes on Glimmer 1.1.

Algor Mortis 1.1 has _almost 700_.

I can't explain how weird that is.

If I assume, conservatively, that one in two people who read the fic drop a like, that puts readership at over _one thousand people_. I've seen a thousand people in person, and that's a stupid amount of individuals with their own lives, hobbies, and other stuff to do than read my mediocre fanfic. I have _fanart_. I predicted fucking none of this, and I've loved every second of it. I've met ThirdCircle, brontokz, and all of you folk, and it's been oddly nice communicating with people as H4T and not as me.

But beyond all of that, I made something. It's not perfect, not even close. I could go back and edit the whole thing from chapter one, cut at least ten thousand words, iron out plot holes, and do a million other things that could turn it into something better.

It's ugly, tonally inconsistent, constructed from a number of sub-par sentences, and basically a mess. But it's also _mine_.

Anyway, enough of me babbling. Let's focus on questions, answers, and my opinions:

* * *

 **What I did good:**

Hookwolf, Oni Lee, Kid Win, Piggot, etc: the side characters. For whatever reasons, the interludes came out really well in this fic. There's a reason I ended on three of them.

Powers: I told myself that I wasn't going to use Marquis's strategies. I didn't. I told myself that Taylor's view of violence would be _way more metal_ than a normal person's. That happened. Self-rated 9/10.

OC's: 90% of them don't have triggers, but they were fun to make, and a lot of them are apparently charming.

 **What I did alright:**

Writing: from a technical level, I screwed up a fair amount of stuff, rushed some of the earlier chapters, and worried too much about the word count. On the other hand, it was legible, basically made sense most of the time, and relative to the rest of Worm fanfics is actually pretty decent. I'm no Percadium or Gaia (read her stuff!), but I'd like to think I was above average.

Consistency: I put up a chapter every week except for _one_. I hit the holidays I like the most with omakes, and only had to resort to writing sidestory for six weeks. If I didn't miss a week and didn't have to delve into writing omakes instead of real chapters, I'd put this under the good section, but I didn't.

Music: Fic probably would've been better without it, but if I'm not having fun the fic's not worth writing, and one guy thanked me for it. (y'all on fanfic dot net didn't get it).

 **Where I fucked up:**

This is an alt-power Taylor, but it was meant to be a shard swap: I don't have a trigger that makes sense for Amy, and Taylor's power should be fundamentally different. False advertising.

Plot: The first arc of this story is AltPower!Taylor garbage. Bullying, Lung fight, then the story happens. TBH, I'm probably going to delete those first three chapters, use the space to set up an omake/fanart index, a page linking the best chapters of the story, and then start on Isidis's interlude. I could've handled the Undersiders meeting better, and there are a lot of little things I'd like to iron out.

The Endbringer fight. It went on for two arcs, and that was an arc too long. I did want to wrap things up that way, but the way I did it probably could've been condensed to a more reasonable timeframe.

The Ending: it was abrupt, didn't follow through on three or four plot lines, and is honestly closer to me nuking canon to get out of writing the story.

Taylor: I'm going to actually stop bullet pointing this, because I need to rant for a minute.

* * *

Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. So many know your name, and so few know you. I'm in the latter category, by the way. I've talked with people who do know her well, listened to their explanations, and while I got them intellectually I simply can't think she made decisions that made sense. For that matter, I reject Wildbow's very premise of a school as bad as Winslow, again, a product of _knowing_ bad things happen but not seeing it. Rein (great fic, go read it!) helped me make sense of Taylor (a little), but I still don't actually like writing her.

What does the word salad above mean? It means that the PoV character for this story was someone I fundamentally don't believe can exist, has motives I don't understand, and is otherwise so different from myself that it's like trying to write from the perspective of a beta fish.

In hindsight, starting this fic under this premise was a mistake.

But I did it anyway.

Now... now I think I understand her a little more. I still think she's wrong, that Wildbow has set up a wildly implausible if not _impossible_ premise, but it _kinda_ makes sense. If I squint. And have two doubles in thirty minutes.

Now, what do I think of Collagen?

I think that I started with a good idea, wrote a bad plot, executed it mostly well, and had fairly ridiculous success in an area I didn't think about (which is to say literally every single interlude). Overall, between a 5/10 and an 8/10. The high points are original and well done within the alt!Taylor subgenre of Wormfic and the bad parts rarely get worse than generic, though things on a whole skew towards the lower bound. I would never write this again, simply because if I were to start again I'd actually try to make QA!Amy and Shaper!Taylor rather than CorpseGrafter!Amy and Marquis!Taylor.

But hey. It happened, people seem to have enjoyed it, and it's complete. That last part is particularly satisfying.

* * *

 **Will there be a sequel?**

Probably not. I have no idea how GM would be handled, what Endbringer would spawn in response to Eidolon figuring out how to eat shards (yes, eat, not drain), how Cauldron would adapt, etc. This plot is over.

So why is it 'probably' and not 'certainly'?

Simply put, in a conversation I had with Ghoul King (author of Monster, another fic you should read!), they revealed how many questions are still unanswered. While I've run out of plot for now, there's probably enough here for another story, albeit on that's still lurking somewhere in my mind. It's not a sure thing either way, so I'm not making promises. IRL issues are popping up (nothing serious, but a lot eating into my free time) and I'm not sure how much I'll want to write MORE Collagen. I might start editing this story, smooth over some plot issues, change some stuff, and if that joggles something loose in my brain...

That's in the future, though, and I make no promises.

 **Will you write something else?**

I am writing something else! Birb Quest updates biweekly, and is a way to keep my finger on the pulse, metaphorically speaking. I have exactly zero longer term projects in the works (Bloody Casanova is more or less dead, as is Somewhere Over the Rainbow), but never is a very long time. I also want to work on original fiction, so that's necessarily going to decrease the amount of time I can devote to fanfic. I have a snip thread where I'll be posting shorter pieces and experiment with prompts. Maybe one of those will turn into something longer?

If I do write something else, it probably won't be Taylor-centric. Well, unless it's the Collagen re-write. Or an all-interludes story.

 **Why did you make us like Hookwolf?**

Because his power is the closest analog to Taylor's in Brockton Bay. Also, because I subsist on chaos and confusion, and making basically decent people enjoying seeing a Nazi on screen felt like a very Mel Brooks thing to do.

To clarify, _you weren't supposed to like Alabaster!_ Spacebattles, why!? He's a Nazi! By choice!

 **Is the Dragonslayer storyline canon?**

Yes, it is.

 **Is Second Chances canon?**

Wouldn't you like to know?

 **Will future Omakes by other writers be canonized?**

It depends. If it's as good as anything I write or better and I read it? Absolutely. If it's not (very much a subjective judgement here) or if I forget? Then no.

* * *

I've written a few things which are _not_ canon to Collagen, but might be worth reading if you have literally nothing else to do. Some are complete, some are not. Make of them what you will. They'll be posted in short order after this.


End file.
